


existing, living, step by step

by frosmxths



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burns, Childhood Friends, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Coming of Age, Developing Relationship, Feelings Realization, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Blood, Miscommunication, OT3, Polyamory, Questionable Coping Mechanisms, Slow Burn, Vampires, running away from your feelings with a dash of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26484910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frosmxths/pseuds/frosmxths
Summary: Seoho’s 23 years old when he realizes he’s in love with his best friend.Hwanwoong's dating Dongju. Dongju's dating Hwanwoong.Seoho doesn't know what to do, so he runs away.(Seoho's a witch, Hwanwoong's a human. They meet by chance, grow up together—learn to live together, learn about each other and about the world— learn about changing and about falling in love.)
Relationships: Kim Youngjo | Ravn & Lee Seoho, Kim Youngjo | Ravn/Lee Seoho, Lee Seoho & Son Dongju | Xion, Lee Seoho & Yeo Hwanwoong, Lee Seoho/Son Dongju | Xion, Lee Seoho/Son Dongju | Xion/Yeo Hwanwoong, Lee Seoho/Yeo Hwanwoong, Son Dongju | Xion/Yeo Hwanwoong, minor geonhak/youngjo
Comments: 28
Kudos: 85





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> narrative style is not exactly.. non-linear but its more poetic and jumps around a bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Seoho first meets Hwanwoong when he’s ten and Hwanwoong is almost eight.
>> 
>> (He likes every Hwanwoong a lot.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > casual mentions of blood here and there (seoho's a blood witch) but nothing graphic!  
> > there's a coming out scene- no homophobia is present or blatant, but the nuances of what coming out means to one are still very present
> 
> > mentioned (short) hwanwoong/keonhee  
> > mentioned (as of this chapter) hwanwoong/dongju

Seoho first meets Hwanwoong when he’s ten and Hwanwoong is almost eight. It’s not that they meet at school, or even that their parents are friends and thus they ended up thrown together in the play pit and forced to socialize—

No, none of that.

They meet because Seoho’s just starting to learn to control his magic, fire slipping past his fingertips and gravity seeming to betray him— he ends up throwing flames at some grass, manages to make it catch on fire, then tries to put it out with a gust of wind—the fire does go out, but Seoho also manages to launch himself forward, and then he trips and falls, crashes right against Hwanwoong, who’s sitting on a swing trying to eat ice-cream.

Hwanwoong falls forward with a yell—ice-cream flying off his hands as he hits the dirty floor _hard_ on his knees.

Seoho doesn’t remember much else from the next few minutes—only recalls apologizing profusely so this other kid wouldn’t cry and cause a ruckus because Seoho’s not even _supposed_ to be playing with anything outside and if his parents find out he’s going to be in trouble and _oh my god I’ll buy you another ice-cream please stop crying—_

Seoho ends up using his allowance to buy Hwanwoong ice-cream and to get band-aids— before buying anything, though, he drags the smaller child to a bench and offers to lick the wound since he doesn’t have any water.

Hwanwoong does _not_ appreciate that, shows it very clearly by letting out a loud _gross!_ and nearly kicking Seoho right on the face.

(“What else am I supposed to use, then?!” He half-yells, holding Hwanwoong’s foot back so he doesn’t kick again. Hwanwoong sticks his tongue out, pulls his foot back.

“Not that! That’s gross!”

“I don’t have water!!!”

“Get some!!” Hwanwoong hugs his knees close, glares at Seoho from behind them. “Ask your parents”

Seoho sticks his tongue back out at him. “Ask yours”)

In the end, Hwanwoong’s parents approach them with a laugh—they give them a bottle of water and clean up Hwanwoong’s scratches, take them to the store so Seoho can use _his_ money to get Hwanwoong something he likes.

Hwanwoong points at something small, so Seoho buys him two—he doesn’t buy anything for himself, and then Hwanwoong’s parents buy _him_ ice-cream, and then then he’s sitting at a bench in the park again, biting down on the plastic spoon from some chocolate and vanilla ice-cream he picked in a rush.

The day’s hot, end of June meaning the temperature just keeps going up, and Seoho feels content.

Hwanwoong’s parents ask why Seoho’s on his own—Seoho lies and says his place is close-by (well, it’s not technically a lie—his house _is_ close-by, just not in-front-of-the-park close-by. His parents very much trust him, so he figures not worrying some kind strangers is worth a little white lie), that his parents are watching over, to please don’t worry, he’s fine.

Hwanwoong’s knees are sweating under band-aids, but they still end up playing together until it’s almost sunset—sweaty and gross and laughing _way_ too loudly but not caring, children as they are.

When Hwanwoong has to leave, he looks sad, so Seoho promises they can meet up the next day he comes by, if he wants.

Hwanwoong says yes, turns to his parents with pleading eyes— Seoho says he’s always by the park, anyway, so meeting up whenever they’re passing by isn’t really a problem, _promise_ (That one’s not a white lie—he does come by the park a lot, hides under the shadow of trees and works on magic where no one can see him—ducks behind thick trunks or bushes when someone passes by way too close, pretends he’s not there—

He’s not really supposed to be _seen_ —but he’s bored, he wants friends, and it’s just _one_ person anyway—he can only bother Giwook inside the magic community, and the kid’s six, Seoho can’t live bonding with only a six year old—he thinks he’ll die).

They part with a wave and laughter—and then Seoho returns to a corner of the park, pretends people haven’t seen him today, pretends he hasn’t had a taste of normal life and goes right back to practicing.

(He manages to get himself up in the air— float for more than just a single second this time—manages to get fire around him all pretty and in control—a little hurricane that might just be a little too dangerous—

He heads home—hidden past magic barriers and past some funny looking trees, happily tells his parents about the colour of the sky outside and the hurricane of fire.

He gets scolded, but he doesn’t mind).

____

After that, he ends up meeting up with Hwanwoong a couple of times a week—manages to get his house’s phone number from his parents and writes it down on his arm in messy pen scribbles.

He really likes Hwanwoong, likes that he’s fun to hang out with—easy to play with and doesn’t seem to mind when Seoho randomly trips or breaks things in ways that might not even look natural.

Hwanwoong is kind of short, hair messy and loud when he laughs—Seoho likes him.

He ends up telling his parents about him, when he asks to write the phone number down on the house directory. His parents sigh at him, seem a little worried—a little unease— but tell him it’s okay.

He’s allowed to have friends outside, he just had to ask.

Seoho frowns, wonders why, then, he still had to spend his time around the six-year-old.

(“Be friendly, Seoho” is all he gets, and he whines until he gets kicked out of the room.)

____

Seoho doesn’t really understand why magic has to be kept hidden, even as grown up as he is at ten years old, but he figures following the adults’ traditions and orders is for the best.

And so, he doesn’t tell Hwanwoong anything about magic until Seoho finds himself starting to reek of blood, at freshly turned twelve years old.

_Initiation_ , something about blood witches and starting to get the proper source of power—something, something—adults say something, whisper things, and then Seoho’s given a blood bag and told he needs to live off it for the rest of his life.

(Off blood in general, unfortunately, not just this singular blood bag.)

Seoho gags.

_Happy birthday to him_ , he guesses, chugging down the first blood bag of what will be many.

Blood doesn’t taste nice—it doesn’t smell nice, either—it doesn’t even look nice.

Seoho hates having to drink it, but adults insist he has no choice—insist that he’ll get used to the taste and smell eventually.

Seoho highly doubts it.

At first, he doesn’t really feel the smell of it on himself _that_ much—just a little bit, a lingering taste and feel at the back of his throat that makes him want to eat something savoury just to get the metal off his tongue and nose.

Eventually, though, Hwanwoong comments on it, and Seoho guesses that _oh._

He probably _stinks._

(“Are you hurt anywhere?” Hwanwoong’s ten and still short—Seoho finds some kind of happiness in Hwanwoong staying shorter than him, even after two years.

“No” Hwanwoong scrunches up his nose, sips on his juice box and looks at Seoho with wide eyes.

“You smell like you’re hurt” Hwanwoong sounds worried, Seoho shrugs—shakes his head.

“You’re smelling things” Seoho sticks his tongue out—the smell reaches his own nose at that, a little stronger, and Hwanwoong covers his nose with his free hand.

“I’m not!” He leaves the juice box over the bench. “You smell like blood!”

Seoho brings his hands up over his mouth, glares. “How do _you_ know what blood smells like?”

“I bleed!” Hwanwoong’s voice goes up, he lowers both hands to rest them on the floor. He’s tense, brow furrowed and lips in a pout. “You should see a doctor if you’re hurt, I can ask my parents—”

“Don’t” Seoho shakes his head—sharp and fast, moves his hands to hold onto Hwanwoong’s.

Hwanwoong holds his hands easily, face twisted in worry as he cocks his head to the side— tries to _understand_.)

Seoho ends up whispering about magic, Hwanwoong’s hands held tightly in his, and Hwanwoong doesn’t believe him.

(“I can show you—but you _have_ to keep it secret! Not even your parents can know!”

“Okay.”)

____

They get closer after that—Hwanwoong amazed, asking Seoho to make sparkles and little whirlwinds spin and fly for him—Seoho feels himself awkward at first, magic stuttering and messing up in ways that make Hwanwoong laugh and fall to the floor cutely—

Eventually, Seoho gets used to it.

And, eventually, Hwanwoong too gets used to it too. The novelty of magic now gone, i becomes part of their everyday, as normal as breathing and walking together.

Seoho meets up with Hwanwoong a lot, drags him around the park to show off something new whenever he can, even when he can’t—sometimes it’s a new trick with old spells, sometimes a new thing he can do in general, sometimes a spell he can’t get right but tries to pretend he has mastered—

Hwanwoong always watches intently—judges the way Seoho does things, asks questions about _why_ and _how_.

Hwanwoong always looks at Seoho with kind eyes, always joins in on games that might be dangerous and might be scary.

Seoho really likes him—so they become best friends, and Seoho figures he wants to live a normal life a little bit more if he can keep playing around with Hwanwoong from now on.

____

At thirteen years old, he gets access to the family computer—which means he gets access to chatting and texting Hwanwoong through messaging apps and with random images and these weird _emoji_.

They stop meeting up at the park as often—Hwanwoong a little more focused on studies and taking up dancing, eleven years old and dreaming big.

Seoho finds it cute, teases him—tells Hwanwoong to promise to invite him when he has events, Seoho will always go.

(He’s home-schooled still, still can only talk to Giwook, still can’t really do much of anything but chat with adults and pretend he knows what he’s doing when he drinks more blood.)

At fourteen, his parents tell him he’s allowed to go to a normal middle school—he’s allowed to be outside more, and he’s allowed to walk further from home.

Seoho’s ecstatic.

He gets his own computer, too, uses it to message Hwanwoong the news—to tell him that he’s _so_ happy, that he’s looking forward to being outside with Hwanwoong more, to maybe go play at arcades or whatever it was that regular teenagers do.

Hwanwoong seems happy, too.

They hang out after school when they can, meet up at convenience stores and drink cheap soda and eat ice-cream even when it’s cold out—Hwanwoong’s growing his hair out more now, talks about dyeing it for his 16th birthday, talks about maybe piercing his ears one day.

(“If you do it, I’ll do it too” Seoho lets it slip out easy, swirling the remnants of vanilla ice-cream on a little cardboard cup. They’re sitting on a random bench outside, Hwanwoong holding his half-eaten mint chocolate ice-cream that Seoho won’t stop teasing him over.

It’s early August, sun burning and making their clothes stick with sweat. Hwanwoong’s birthday is in a few weeks, term starting shortly after that and sending him headfirst into high school.

Hwanwoong laughs, takes a bite of his ice-cream. “We’re both gonna get in trouble”

Seoho shrugs, lifts his cup and tips it so the remnants of ice-cream fall to his lips. He licks at it, feels the smell of blood on his own breath. “Just one earring, maybe? You can take that off”

Hwanwoong hums, little wooden spoon of his ice cream between his lips—deep in thought.

Seoho thinks he looks very cute like that—sweating and stupid, eating some disgrace of an ice-cream flavour and with his hair messy and falling on his face.

“Wanna come over for my birthday, then?” Hwanwoong smiles at him, and Seoho grins back—nods as he stands up.

“Sure.”)

They end up in Hwanwoong’s bathroom with a safety pin and cotton—Seoho doesn’t know healing magic, but he manages to beg and bother Giwook enough to get the guy to lend him some potion to help with healing and bleeding—Giwook tells him it’s not perfect, but Seoho’s sure that ears don’t bleed that much, anyway, so it’s fine.

They bought one pair of earrings earlier that day— it’s cheap, whatever they could get their hands on that was nice enough and they could still afford.

Both earrings are the same, simple and pretty, black studs on gold coating.

Seoho gets his right side pierced, Hwanwoong gets the left side—and then they match.

Giwook’s potion helps, more than anything, in numbing and stopping things from bleeding too much—Hwanwoong argues that some ice and peroxide would’ve worked just fine, but Seoho shushes him with a smack to the hand and a laugh.

(They laugh themselves stupid that night—Seoho ends up staying over, crammed together with Hwanwoong in his bed and giggling like they’re both children again.

It’s nice.

Seoho doesn’t want the night to end—doesn’t want summer break to end, because Hwanwoong is entering high school, and then they’re gonna be even _more_ apart.

He doesn’t say anything out loud, pulls at Hwanwoong’s hair when he’s almost asleep.)

____

Hwanwoong starting high school means they only get to text each other most of the time, studies all too suffocating for either of them to even think about meeting up as often as during break.

Hwanwoong’s focusing a lot on arts—on dance. Seoho’s going for sciences.

They can’t really share much anymore.

They talk a little less—send each other things once a week, for the most part—sometimes they don’t for a few extra days, sometimes they don’t talk for a few extra weeks, sometimes they don’t talk even when it’s weekend.

Seoho’s fine with that, knows it doesn’t mean they’re any less close—he can hop back on track and talk about anything with Hwanwoong whenever he wants.

It just makes him sad.

____

They make time on a weekend of November, when the world’s turned cold and Seoho keeps complaining about not being able to carry around a little portable bonfire.

(“Just because others can’t do it doesn’t mean _I_ should freeze”

Hwanwoong laughs at that, swats at him and fixes up his scarf.

“Deal with the cold like the rest of us, hyung”)

They decide to go buy something to eat—preferably something cheap, salty, and quick—settle for whatever snacks they find first, then make it to Hwanwoong’s place.

The heating makes it feel warm, but they still huddle together on Hwanwoong’s bed with a laptop in front of them—some random movie they had heard mixed reviews about playing. Seoho’s biting whatever cookies ended up in his hands first, gloves full of crumbs and legs covered by a blanket. Hwanwoong’s next to him, chocolate held by his lips and eyes lost somewhere in the room—he’s not focused on the movie, seems to be thinking about something else.

Seoho leans forward, clicks pause on the laptop and turns to Hwanwoong.

“What’s up?”

Hwanwoong blinks—eyes falling on the paused movie, on Seoho’s hand.

He blinks again—lets his lips part in a soundless _ah_ and laughs a little awkwardly.

“Sorry, just—” Seoho frowns. “We can keep watching, sorry” Hwanwoong looks apologetic, as if he had actually done something wrong—he looks _worried_ , mind lost and wandering.

Seoho doesn’t like that.

He closes the laptop carefully, pushes it back and drops in front of Hwanwoong, legs crossed and crumbs falling all over the place. Hwanwoong sighs, avoids Seoho’s eyes with a shrug.

Seoho pokes at his cheek, hard—Hwanwoong squawks, meets Seoho’s eyes to give him a glare.

Seoho smiles, takes his hand back.

“Wanna talk?”

Hwanwoong purses his lips, frowns and looks away.

“I think—” He bites his lips, stops, seems to think his words over—his eyes are everywhere in the room, a little too wide and anxious.

Seoho _really_ doesn’t like that.

“I think I’m—” Hwanwoong stops again, seems frustrated at himself as he breathes in, licks at his lips and pulls at his sleeves. “I think I like—I think I like guys”

“Huh?” Seoho feels a little stupid, really, his response absolutely _not_ what Hwanwoong needs right now and absolutely _not_ a good response to this kind of thing in any way, but—

He just—he doesn’t know what to do.

He’s not good at talking, or at reassurance, or at—

“God, okay, just—just forget this, yeah?” Hwanwoong laughs, recoils into himself and looks down—at his hands, fidgeting and tense.

Seoho blinks—feels a gust of wind even though everything’s closed—one that hits the back of his neck and pushes Hwanwoong’s bangs away from his face.

“No, I—” Seoho swallows, tries again, grips at the bedsheets and tries to make his own words _work_. “I’m not good at—at talking, you know this but—that’s fine, like—”

Hwanwoong looks like he’s going to cry—Seoho clicks his tongue, leans forward to place his hand over Hwanwoong’s, startles a quiet sob out of him.

“Woong—Woongie, hey” Hwanwoong doesn’t look up, lets Seoho pull him into a hug.

(Even though they don’t talk much after that—even though Hwanwoong won’t stop crying against Seoho’s shirt, they still spend the rest of the night together—

Seoho’s not good at words, not good at making him feel better, doesn’t even _know_ if he’s supposed to make him feel better, reassure him—or if he should just tell him it’s okay, it’s normal, he doesn’t care, no one should care, Hwanwoong is Hwanwoong, Hwanwoong can like and love whoever he likes and he loves Hwanwoong all the same, will always love Hwanwoong all the same because it doesn’t matter and—

Seoho just holds him instead, runs a hand down his back and through his hair.

Seoho figures he can talk to him like always, tell him about magic and spells—

So that’s what he does. He talks to him about anything and nothing at all—about life and about questions he can’t find an answer to—talks until Hwanwoong’s laughing through his tears, poking at Seoho to stop with the stupid questions and _no, hyung, a murderous fish couldn’t win over a mouse on land, fish can’t walk—hyung, no, force of will won’t make you just breathe on land—_

Until they’re both under the covers—safe from self-doubts and the pains of growing up, cuddled close together even if Seoho’s body feels like it’s on fire.

Seoho likes this Hwanwoong better— the Hwanwoong that’s laughing and looks happy, hands pillowing his face as he asks Seoho about the possibilities of Seoho’s magic making him fly to outer space—

He likes this Hwanwoong a lot.)

(He likes every Hwanwoong a lot.)

____

(“Hyung?”

“Hm?”

It’s a night of early June and they’re sitting together at the same park they met—it’s a little dirtier now, overgrown weeds here and there taking over the place.

(It’s a lot emptier, too, but that might just have to do with the time of the day.)

“Remember” A breath, Hwanwoong pushes his bangs back. “Keonhee—the guy from my class that I told you about—”

Seoho nods, whispers out a _yeah_ that gets almost lost to the wind. Hwanwoong smiles, taps at the bench as he looks up at the sky.

“He asked me out”)

____

Seoho pretends his world isn’t falling apart while Keonhee and Hwanwoong date—he doesn’t know _why_ it’s upsetting, doesn’t know why his head won’t stop spinning and why his thoughts are so out of order.

He hates not understanding—so he ends up running away.

He doesn’t want to think about Hwanwoong, so he ends up agreeing to help Giwook out when he shows up at his doorstep with a note from some vampire guy that wants to be able to go out into the sun.

He spends months on research— finding out about vampires and their magic.

(Him and Hwanwoong end up fighting—more than once, earrings they still match burning on Seoho’s ear.

Seoho doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like not understanding.)

____

Hwanwoong and Keonhee break up the same year, after a few months—they stay close friends, and Seoho ends up apologizing to both of them for acting like a jerk for so long—for acting like a jerk at all.

(He still doesn’t understand, but he hates seeing Hwanwoong sad.)

____

After Hwanwoong finishes high school, he ends up moving out to be closer to his dance academy. Seoho moves out, too, basically lives in Hwanwoong’s apartment—learns to control wind and gravity to walk on walls and make it easy to show up.

Hwanwoong doesn’t tell him no—complains but lets him in anyway.

They both meet more people—make new circles and settle for a life, something like adulthood burning at the back of their minds.

(Hwanwoong meets Dongmyeong in dance class— then his twin, Dongju, too.

Seoho has known them for a while now—Dongmyeong being the vampire Seoho has been helping walk in the sun for a few years.

Dongju’s cute, has always been, so—when Hwanwoong starts gravitating towards him _just_ a little more, starts talking about him to Seoho even without noticing—Seoho can tell Hwanwoong has taken a liking to him.

And, at the same time, Seoho can tell another thing, too.)

Seoho’s 23 years old when he realizes he’s in love with his best friend.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > (Seoho wishes he could kiss Hwanwoong’s tears away—)
>> 
>> (But he _can’t_.) 

Walking in through your friend’s window in the middle of the night is, Seoho thinks, something _anyone_ would do if they were given the ability to.

So, of course, since Seoho _has_ the ability to, he only does what’s right.

Which is, of course, walking in through the window.

Which is why he, now, at maybe around 10pm, is tapping on the 5th floor window of Hwanwoong’s apartment, feet on nothing as he hovers in the air (it’s a little chilly up here, but that’s something he’s already grown used to). He knows Hwanwoong’s awake, probably stressing over papers that he won’t let himself finish- thinking about choreographies he can’t help but want to perfect and beyond.

That’s just how Hwanwoong is, he’s known him long enough.

He taps on the window again, thinks about whatever song was on the radio earlier— lets himself hum softly as he waits. Hwanwoong stands up from his bed, Seoho lets his eyes follow him, blurry past the dirty glass.

Hwanwoong gets to the window, frowns and mouths a soundless “why”—Seoho only grins and shrugs in reply, red hair a complete mess from the light breeze bouncing in place. Hwanwoong sighs, walks a step closer, seems to resist the urge to simply _not_ open and leave Seoho to freeze outside (or to maybe just push him so he falls off and away, and then maybe learns to _use a door_ like a normal person). Seoho taps on the window a couple more times, and Hwanwoong unclicks the lock with an eyeroll.

“One of these days” He pushes the window, opens it, watches as Seoho jumps back and hovers in the air like some kind of ghost “I’m simply not going to open”

Bringing a hand up to his chest, Seoho places the best _offended_ look he can on his face: brow furrowed slightly, lips parted in mock shock, eyes as wide as they can go, his other hand dramatically covering his mouth. “You wouldn’t do that” Hwanwoong does something like a grunt, then shivers from the cold air—Seoho jumps into the room, pats Hwanwoong’s head a couple times before turning and swiftly closing the window. Hwanwoong mumbles a _thank you_ and Seoho grins as he lets himself sit on the windowsill, legs raised and kicking in the air. “You love me too much” singsong as he tilts his head to one side, Hwanwoong snorts.

“Only won’t because I don’t want you to break my window again, actually” Seoho gives him a cheeky grin, and Hwanwoong rolls his eyes before dragging himself to sit back on the bed, facing Seoho. “But I might push you down”

“You’re too nice for that” Hwanwoong chucks a crumpled piece of paper at him, no doubt part of his homework that he wasn’t satisfied with. It hits Seoho weakly on the leg, and he lets himself drop down to pick it up on his way to sit next to Hwanwoong. “Plus, I can float”

He accentuates his point by throwing the paper in the air, having it hover in front of them. Hwanwoong looks at it, eyes curious and tired, and Seoho laughs a little, lets himself fall to lie down on the bed. Hwanwoong huffs, turns so he’s facing Seoho, back resting on the wall behind his pillow, legs awkwardly crossed in front of him.

“I could catch you off-guard” Seoho laughs again, louder, paper falling back to his hands.

“You can try” Hwanwoong shoves at him with a laugh of his own, muffled as he tries to hide it behind his arm, other hand harsh against Seoho’s leg. Seoho kicks back weakly, lets the paper fall on the bed—crumpled over messy bedsheets.

Hwanwoong sighs, dramatic, stretches one leg to kick at Seoho before folding it again.

Seoho laughs again.

They fall into silence after that—comfortable and easy.

Hwanwoong falls back against the wall again, eyes lost somewhere outside the closed window. Seoho looks up at the ceiling, feels his phone vibrate with calls and questions in his pocket, ignores it, and turns his head to the side.

He eyes the paper—lifts it up again, stretches it out in the air over his eyes—there’s words written all over, crossed out and frustrated.

Seoho lets his eyes close a second, quietly places the paper back on the bed.

“It wasn’t bad” Seoho’s voice breaks the silence, gentle. Hwanwoong turns back to look at him, eyes a little sleepy and confused, a yawn stuck halfway out his throat. Seoho makes the paper crinkle where it’s on the bed, makes it float a little again before dropping it back down, corner of it almost touching Hwanwoong’s hand.

Hwanwoong looks at it—a long second—then shrugs.

“It could’ve been better” a mumble, edges of frustration evident in the room.

Seoho raises himself on his elbows and does something like a shrug, a little tense and awkward. “It worked enough” He frowns— makes the paper burn in blue flames with a soft snap of his fingers, ashes dancing in the air almost like glitter in their eyes. Hwanwoong watches, follows particles moving up and away and seeming to disappear. “You’re never gonna finish like this, Woongie”

Hwanwoong huffs, moves so he has his knees held up to his chest—he lets his forehead rest against them, mumbles out something unintelligible against them. Seoho clicks his tongue, sits up so he can face him properly—frown a little deeper. Hwanwoong looks up a second—makes short eye contact before he puts his head down again, whines against his knees.

“I _know_ that” He lifts his head slightly again, frown harsh and eyes hazy. “I just want to do better” he breathes out, voice close to snapping at the edges. Seoho lets out a hum, lets himself fall back down on the bed, eyes on the ceiling.

There’s silence again, just a little heavier.

“It’s a lot” Hwanwoong’s voice is quiet, stretched to its limit, a string about to break. Seoho turns his head to the side again, reaches out to pat the front of Hwanwoong’s leg, careful. “There’s dance evaluations, too” Hwanwoong’s voice shakes—he inhales sharply, his face dropping back down to hide against his knees. Seoho just listens, hums again, rubs Hwanwoong’s leg as soothingly as he can.

They stay like that for a bit—unmoving and quiet, Hwanwoong trying find his own breathing again.

Eventually, Hwanwoong raises his head with a sigh, eyes glassy and a little red. Seoho withdraws his hand, watches as Hwanwoong stretches his legs and falls on the bed, facing Seoho. Seoho gives him a smile, and Hwanwoong returns it with a laugh before closing his eyes and resting against Seoho’s shoulder.

Seoho tenses up, but stills, lets Hwanwoong breathe against his shirt.

“Ask me something” His voice is quiet, could pass as almost asleep. Seoho distracts himself by making discarded pens and scribbled, useless papers float in the air and almost dance. He pushes at Hwanwoong’s hair, turns on his side, lets Hwanwoong readjust, bury his face against Seoho’s chest.

“Would you rather…” Seoho ponders for a minute, lets himself adjust to the closeness he’s still not used to, to the way Hwanwoong’s fit himself against him (close enough to feel his warmth but far away enough it’s not suffocating. Their bodies are close, Hwanwoong’s breathing on his chest and their legs almost touching— but there’s still space, there’s still _breathing—_ just like always, limits familiar and second nature for both of them). “Lose all your teeth, or have, like, double the number of teeth?”

Hwanwoong’s laugh hits his chest in puffs of air, and Seoho laughs back, high and short and comfortably awkward.

“How would those even fit” Hwanwoong lifts his head then, eyes crinkling and lighter now. “Do you, like, get a bigger mouth?”

“You could also grow teeth outside your mouth”

“Like where?” Hwanwoong looks almost horrified, and Seoho laughs harder at that, loud and amused.

“Your ears?” Hwanwoong snorts, Seoho blinks at him with wide, serious eyes, tries to hide his smile. “It could be”

“Maybe losing my teeth then” He brings a hand up to whack at Seoho’s chest “Imagine going to the dentist with these” He takes a break, mouth pursed and frowning as he seems to try to think up the right words. He waves a hand between them a little exaggeratedly. “ear-teeth. How would you even—”

Seoho looks in deep thought, interrupts. “So, I grew some teeth in my ears, and I was wondering…” He tries to sound serious, but laughter bubbles and breaks through the façade, eyes crinkling up and smile in place. Hwanwoong looks at him in something like disbelief.

“I’d quit” Hwanwoong flips on his back, stretches as best as he can, arms up in the air before he drops them back on the bed—one of them falling on top of Seoho. “On the spot. I wouldn’t even look at the ear-teeth, I’d just leave”

“You gotta earn that paycheck though!” Seoho pushes Hwanwoong’s arm away, Hwanwoong retaliates by throwing it over his face. Seoho makes a noise in complaint, and Hwanwoong laughs.

“I’m sure other places wouldn’t make me deal with ear-teeth” Seoho lifts Hwanwoong’s arm.

“Would they hire you?” Hwanwoong frowns, brings his arm back towards himself, over his chest. “After knowing you quit because of some ear-teeth”

“I think I’d be good enough—” His hand on the bed drums a lost melody against the mattress, bedsheets messy and discarded— almost halfway to being completely on the floor.

“At dealing with ear-teeth?” Seoho smirks, Hwanwoong takes in an amused breath, turns to look at him in the best amused glare he can muster. He turns on his side again, hand that was against the mattress coming forward to smack Seoho on the chest.

“At my job, dumbass” His words are tinted with clear and pure amusement, fondness dripping at the edges. Seoho smiles at him, lets Hwanwoong’s hand linger against him for a second.

Then two (in silence)—

Three (of silence)—

Four (of silence)—

“You’d be great at it” Seoho’s voice is almost a whisper, as cheerful as it is shy, and Hwanwoong smiles _(at the dance evaluations, with projects and the coming school years, with graduation and making it past university, in whatever he might want, need— he’d be great at it, Seoho was sure)_. He pulls his hand back towards himself, and Seoho places his own hand where Hwanwoong’s once was. “You’re doing great, you know?”

Hwanwoong looks up at him then, a little too raw and a little too vulnerable, and Seoho has to resist the urge to lean down and kiss him— if only to somehow take Hwanwoong’s mind off everything, take his breath and everything away with it (his worries, pressures, expectations— everything, everything, _everything_ ).

Hwanwoong scoots closer, brings his head to rest against Seoho’s chest again, forehead warm and breathing uneven.

“Thank you”

Seoho only hums in reply, hands still against the mattress, breathing controlled and yet a little lost. Hwanwoong’s breathing is getting steadier, a quiet rhythm against the night, and Seoho thinks he’s already dozed off— is about to shake his shoulder to wake him up when Hwanwoong shifts, runs a hand through his hair.

“Hyung?” Seoho looks down at him, at messy blond hair and overgrown roots (Hwanwoong should hurry and dye his hair again, but Seoho kind of misses his black hair, too, so he doesn’t say anything), resting against his shirt. Hwanwoong’s hands are pulling at his own collar now, nervous movements hitting Seoho like warm small waves. He makes a noise, a quiet _hm?_ of acknowledgement, plays with his own fingers and the mattress.

“I think I wanna date someone” Seoho’s breath hitches, a second of ice in his veins, then goes back, eyes careful and a little wide as he runs a hand through the top of Hwanwoong’s head.

“Do you want my permission?” his voice is quiet, playful even as his thoughts _suffocate_ and turn a hundred times over, fingers shaking against soft dirty blond that scratches and burns (somewhere in the room, Hwanwoong’s pens fall off the table by a gust of wind from a closed window, Seoho’s hair stirring against bedsheets and mouth heavy with the taste of _fear_ ).

Hwanwoong laughs a little, looks up at Seoho with a warm blush and careful eyes. “No” He reaches a hand up, runs it over Seoho’s face, pushes stray bangs away from his face and forehead. “I just thought you’d wanna know” Hwanwoong’s hand drops back on the mattress, and his eyes slide shut with a shaky breath. “I’m just nervous, don’t know—I’ve never asked anyone out”

Seoho shifts, hugs Hwanwoong close, amused laughter leaving him when Hwanwoong squawks in surprise against his chest. “It’s Dongju, right?” Hwanwoong tenses in his arms, and Seoho smiles in something like victory (something like _bitterness_ and pain).

“How did you know—” Seoho holds him closer, squeezes Hwanwoong against his chest until he’s whining, hands pushing at Seoho and voice loud. Seoho lets him go, but Hwanwoong keeps his head buried in Seoho’s chest.

“You’re a lovesick idiot” (and Seoho’s always been good at reading others before himself, always good at finding patterns and logic, always good at noticing feelings and thoughts even if they were left unsaid— he’s always been good at others, at knowing how to pull them along and make them smile— he’s always been good at Hwanwoong, at knowing the meanings and hidden words even before Hwanwoong knew or understood any of them.) Hwanwoong whines against Seoho’s chest again, embarrassed, hands going to the bottom of his face, his neck— warm and burning Seoho’s clothes and skin. “He’s cute” _he likes you, too_ “shoot your shot” _as much as I do, he likes you a lot._

Hwanwoong breathes out, moves away with his hands over his face, breathing broken and painful.

 _I’m just scared—_ unsaid in the air, a whisper of nothing in Seoho’s ears.

(Seoho wishes he could kiss Hwanwoong’s tears away—)

(But he c _an’t._ )

He smiles, ruffles Hwanwoong’s hair until he’s laughing, moving his hands to rub at his eyes with his sleeve.

“I’m thinking too much again, aren’t I?” Hwanwoong’s voice is small, scared and vulnerable. Seoho gives him a shrug.

“That’s just you, right?”

_____

Of course, Seoho thinks, sitting on the floor of a park and resting against a bench, of course Hwanwoong’s not the only one that thinks too much.

Of course, Seoho thinks, Youngjo’s knees close to where he has his head on the bench, facing the sky and looking at nothing— of course, he’s also a lovesick idiot.

Of course he is, he has been for the last _two years_ (maybe _more_ , he’s never been good at understanding himself, never been good at finding and working on his own patterns and feelings— he’s never been good at _himself_ , at realizing— realizing he was head-over-heels and gone for Hwanwoong only after years of confusion and doubt and _hurting_ — realizing only because Youngjo had almost lost his patience and hit him over the head in frustration a year ago).

Of course he is, he’s the kind of lovesick idiot who’d tell his crush to _go for it_ and not utter _I like you, too_ even a single time.

Seoho sighs, Youngjo pushes Seoho’s bangs away from his forehead carefully, eyes lost somewhere in trees and leaves rustling in the wind, earphones humming quiet music into the air. Seoho blinks up at him, lets himself lean into the touch, feels something like a thorn at the corner of his eyes, tiny pricks that burn and choke him a little. Youngjo looks at him, then, pushes Seoho’s bangs above his forehead and ruffles his hair with a smile. He clicks pause on his phone, pulls off his earphones and lets them fall.

“It’s weird to see you like this” Youngjo turns his body some more, looks at Seoho a little more properly. Seoho smiles up at him, a little forced, and Youngjo frowns.

“Do you want to see me set things on fire, then?” Youngjo’s frown deepens.

“Please don’t” Seoho laughs, raises a hand and sprinkles blue flares over Youngjo’s clothes and hair. They die down after a second, as if never there, but Youngjo’s eyes are still wide as he jumps and gets on his feet. Seoho claps his hands, amused— laughter a constant bubbling in the air as he moves away from the bench and stands up, turns to face Youngjo with a sweetly apologetic smile on his lips.

“ _Seoho_ ” Youngjo’s got a hand up on his hair, the other clutching his own shirt. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry, sorry—” Seoho snickers to himself, brings both hands up to cover his face—eye-smile still giving away his laughter. Youngjo frowns at him, dusts off nothing from his clothes. “I just—you said not to”

“That doesn’t—” Youngjo sighs, falls back on the bench, pulls up his earphones from the floor. “Whatever”

Seoho sits next to him, eyes amused as he looks at nothing and stretches his legs—swings them up and down, bouncing against concrete. “ _Spit out flame_ , or whatever”

Youngjo huffs out a laugh—amused even as he shoves at Seoho’s shoulder with a _hey_ of complaint.

Seoho shoves back, no strength behind it, laughs a little bit more before falling into silence.

“Really, though” Youngjo tries, turns so he’s facing towards Seoho—eyes careful and worried. “What’s wrong?”

Seoho’s legs—still stretched, still bouncing—twitch a little, one of them stopping in mid-air. He shrugs nonchalantly, doesn’t look at Youngjo. “Nothing’s _wrong,_ just—” He leans a little forward, brings his hands up in front of him and looks down—moves one hand, a dismissing gesture in front of him. “Feeling weird, I guess”

“Why?” Youngjo’s voice is kind—telling him he understands, understands that it’s hard to say things—that it’s okay to take time to find the words—

Youngjo’s kind like that—it scares Seoho a little, sometimes—the guy’s too honest, maybe too kind-hearted and with his heart on his sleeve.

Maybe that’s why he talks, too—because Youngjo is soft and trustworthy, Youngjo is human in his care and in how he loves everyone—Youngjo brings him a little bit of safety.

(He’s only really known him for about a year and a half—met him because Youngjo showed up in an alleyway at maybe 3am, heavily underdressed for the early March weather, following the smell of blood.

Seoho had been feeding a stray cat, as you do, hands itching a little bit from allergies he was ignoring in favour of moping and throwing his issues to the wind by petting a cute animal.

The cat didn’t seem to mind the smell of blood, thankfully, so Seoho had found himself blissfully ignoring it until Youngjo—

“It smells like blood here?” Blurted out, voice and steps all too loud for that time of the night. Seoho had looked up, hand frozen where the cat used to be—now hovering on air, cat long gone to the noise.

Seoho scrunched up his nose—sniffs, pretended to look for the smell. “I don’t feel it”

Youngjo—a stranger at the time—had squinted, looked around the alleyway. “ _I_ do”

“Why’re you following the smell of _blood_ anyway?” Seoho stood up, cleaned at his dirty knees, tried to seem like a normal human—smirked, playful. “Funky”

Youngjo had blinked, seemed taken aback and a little sheepish— put his hands in his pockets and looked at the dirty walls. “Looking for something?”

“What for?” Maybe it was the moon—bright and full that day— Maybe it was the smell and feel of humanity coming off of Youngjo—maybe it was just Seoho trying to distract himself, forget about revolving feelings and flawed logic for the night—

Whatever it was, Seoho felt chatty—felt a little more _sure_ , felt like teasing the stranger.

“Uh—” Youngjo had hesitated, brought a hand up to tuck some stray strands of hair behind his ear “vampires?”

Seoho blinked—smiled a little wider, laughed quietly as he stepped closer.

Maybe it was the light of the moon—maybe it was everything at once—

Whatever it was, Seoho decided he liked him— he seemed interesting, the stranger, looking for vampires so late at night and without any safety measures.

They became friends after that.)

“Hwanwoong—” Seoho breathes out, rests both hands at his sides over the bench. “I was talking to him, yeah? And—” He bites his lip, laughs a little and drops his shoulders. “He has a crush, I remember he told me about it like…vaguely” Youngjo only nods along as he listens, eyes fixed on Seoho—Seoho smiles at him. “Anyway— I could tell who it was and well—he told me he wants to date, you know, ask him out—and—”

“And you’re moping” Youngjo’s teasing is light-hearted, hand now on Seoho’s thigh. Seoho pouts, turns away to just stare at the floor— like it’s going to give him answers and maybe rid him of his feelings.

“Dongju—Dongju really likes Hwanwoong a lot too, so like—” He stops himself, closes his eyes a second. “Yeah”

Youngjo sighs, pushes at Seoho’s thigh softly. “Seoho—”

“I’ll be fine” Seoho interrupts, looks up at Youngjo with the best smile he can muster again. “Just kinda—you know, feeling weird” Seoho shrugs, lets his leg drop and looks back up at the sky. “Never know how to deal” A whisper against the air—Youngjo moves his hand away, scoots a little closer and pats Seoho on the back now.

“You’ll be fine” Quiet—Seoho laughs, looks ahead and mutters _I know_. Youngjo pats him once more, then moves away, drops his hands on the bench.

There’s silence again—Seoho kind of wants to cry, kind of wants to set something on fire to feel a spark of something that’s not lovesickness and the weird numbing of heartbreak—

He does neither, simply gets air and fire to dance in front of his eyes—hit nothing and then disappear into the air.

Youngjo watches, waits until it’s all gone before he speaks up.

“You don’t plan to tell him at all, huh?” Seoho laughs, shakes his head.

“What for?”

“So he knows?”

“Again,” Seoho lifts both legs up, then down again— stands up with a jump and turns to look at Youngjo. “What for?”

Youngjo frowns but doesn’t say anything. Seoho stretches his hand out, Youngjo takes it, lets Seoho pull him up to his feet.

“He doesn’t need to know” Seoho lets go, turns around and starts walking. “He’s gonna get all awkward” He stops, purses his lips. Youngjo walks too, matches Seoho’s pace. “Plus, he likes Dongju” A pause, he turns to walk backwards a little faster, faces Youngjo. “Little vampire’s too cute. I already lost” He breaks into a smile—a quiet laugh.

Youngjo looks worried, sighs. “At least so you can get it off your chest—”

“No”

“And move on—Seoho” Youngjo walks a little faster, grabs Seoho’s arm—pulls Seoho forward, hovering in the air as the other is. “You can’t suffer over him forever”

Seoho smiles—pushes at Youngjo, makes him let go with a slight burning of his fingers and jumps back—still in the air, hair messy with gusts of wind he can’t control along with his emotions.

“I don’t want to” Seoho’s voice moves with the wind—a light breeze against Youngjo’s hair. Youngjo doesn’t move, hand in the air as he looks up at Seoho. “I’m happy—liking him makes me happy”

Silence—a second, a beat.

“I’m fine like this”

____

Of course, Dongju and Hwanwoong end up dating.

And they’re cute—they’re adorable, always close to each other and Hwanwoong fitting easily in Dongju’s lap.

Seoho’s heart hurts—so he pretends he’s busy, pretends magic has him focused somewhere else, pretends Youngjo’s ceiling is the most comfortable place he’s ever been in (it’s not, he misses Hwanwoong’s apartment—misses scaring the shit out of Keonhee at 5am and misses Hwanwoong’s fond sighs when he saw that Seoho was sleeping on his couch again—but it’s fine, he needs to give himself time, needs to work out his emotions just _enough_ that he can look Dongju in the eye and not cry).

He avoids Hwanwoong, in the least obvious way he can manage while still being _very_ obvious (Geonhak tells him so, one day at Youngjo’s house—tells him that _no, hyung, you’re not fooling anyone—_

Seoho knows—so he flicks shredded papers and little flames at Geonhak so he shuts up.

It doesn’t work.)

—Avoids Dongju, too, even though he has to go to his house pretty often to drop off spells and recipes written on messy paper.

He starts living during the day a little more, when Dongju’s asleep—visits Hwanwoong only when it’s still early and the sun is out and Dongju whines if the curtain’s opened even a little bit.

Eventually, Hwanwoong waits for him one morning with the window open—drags him inside and forces him to sit down on the floor, back against the side of the bed.

Seoho lets him.

(“Why’re you acting so—Why’re you avoiding us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hyung” Hwanwoong sits down in front of him, hands tense where they fall over Seoho’s crossed legs—his touch burns, it takes everything in Seoho not to throw fire and make him go away.

He doesn’t want him to.

“I’ve known you for my whole life, hyung” Hwanwoong leans back, drops his hands on the carpeted floor. “You’re avoiding me—and Dongju, you’re avoiding us and you’re just—being weird and I don’t get it and I want to talk but you—”

“I’m not—I’m just busy, I’m sorry—”

“You’re not” Seoho frowns, fists clenched in front of him.

“What?”

“You’re _not_ just busy, hyung, you—you did the same fucking thing back in high school, you—”

“You could—” Seoho’s words make no sense, have no rhyme or reason, leave his lips before he can stop them—he just wants to leave, wants to sort out his feelings because he wants nothing more than to just tell Hwanwoong he’s in love with him and— “reach out to me too, you know—You never do—It’s always me running after you and then when you’re dating it’s—”

“What the hell?” Hwanwoong’s voice is thin— worn to the edge and about to burst.

Seoho doesn’t like that—Seoho doesn’t mean that—Seoho knows he can’t say that when he’s made it hard for Hwanwoong to even _find him_ their whole lives—

“I don’t even know where you live, hyung” Quiet, shaking at the edges—Hwanwoong’s looking away as he speaks, eyes on the floor and hands gripping what they can of the carpet. “And you don’t—you don’t reply to me or Dongju and you’re treating us coldly and you—” He looks up—catches Seoho’s eyes and he looks—

He looks so _angry._

“You can’t tell me I don’t try when you’re the one who’s pushing me away again” A little louder.

“You can’t—you can’t throw the blame on me when we talked about this in _high school_ and now you—” Louder, louder, _louder—_

Seoho wants to cover his ears—wants to turn things back and wants magic and something _something_ so he can stop being such an idiot—so he can fix mistakes and patch up where it hurts and—

“You’re doing the same _thing_ and I don’t know—” Hwanwoong stops, breathes in harshly, pushes his bangs back and rubs at the corner of his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong and—”

“Nothing” Seoho’s voice is quiet but steady—careful as he reaches out to place his hand over Hwanwoong’s.

Hwanwoong doesn’t move away—doesn’t look up—doesn’t really move.

“You’re not doing anything wrong— I’m sorry” Seoho’s hand moves to Hwanwoong’s wrist, pulls him forward until Hwanwoong’s falling over him—head against Seoho’s chest, Seoho’s hand on his back. “I’m—I’m not good at dealing with things and—I guess I don’t know how to act around you two and—”

Hwanwoong’s hands are tight on the front of Seoho’s shirt—Seoho breathes, shaky, gets his thoughts back in place and holds Hwanwoong closer.

“You do reach out to me a lot—” Seoho feels his own voice break—feels little tears on the edges as he tries to bring himself back together. The window’s still open—but the breeze on Hwanwoong’s hair is not from there—neither is the one rushing past Seoho’s neck. “You don’t have to chase me if I leave, it’s—”

“I do” Hwanwoong laughs quietly against his chest, looks up at Seoho with shiny shiny pretty eyes “Or you’re gonna disappear”

Seoho laughs back, lets go of Hwanwoong and drops his hands to the floor. “I won’t—not again, I promise”)

_____

Replaying thoughts and disconnected words in his head, Seoho rings on the intercom of the twins’ apartment—

It’s been a few days since he talked with Hwanwoong—since Hwanwoong made him talk, really—and he’s been wallowing in self-pity and wondering life choices since.

He’s an idiot—he rings the intercom again—for thinking either of them wouldn’t notice, for thinking he could just run away like some angst-ridden teenager again and ignore his feelings.

(He’s too old for that—something like that echoes at the back of his head.

He pushes it back. Adulthood is stupid.)

He’s about to ring again when an annoyed voice answers with a _who is it?_ — Seoho laughs in reply, and the voice on the other end huffs in annoyance before the building’s front door unlocks with a quiet noise. Seoho lets out a cheerful _thank_ you and walks to the elevator.

It’s the middle of the day still—but it’s the only time he thinks he can get Dongju awake and on his own, so Seoho hopes Dongju can forgive him.

(Dongmyeong and Giwook were out for the day, he knew that, had helped Dongmyeong out so he could stay outside without problems—he had started to burn a little easier, Seoho had been perfecting spells for him lately—

He’s been over at their apartment more times than he can count—but he’s always avoided Dongju, like a coward.)

When he makes it to the front door of the apartment, the door’s half-open and very much unlocked. Seoho sighs, lets himself in with a quiet greeting and makes sure to close the door behind him. The curtains are all drawn—not a single ray of sunlight reaching the inside and all lights off.

On the couch, wrapped in his usual blue blanket, is Dongju—looking sour but interested and sitting with his knees hugged to his chest.

Seoho gives him a smile, leaves his shoes aside neatly and walks over to stand in the living room, hands in the pockets of his jacket and _nervous—_

Dongju scowls at him—fangs a little bared and looking unwelcoming—looking almost angry.

(Seoho knows, at the very least, that he’s welcome—if not, the door wouldn’t have been left open—

If not, Dongju would’ve told him to fuck off.

The anger, though—that one’s very real—and Seoho accepts it.

He _deserves_ it, after all.)

“What do you _want?_ ” Dongju’s voice is tired—raspy with sleep and pent up emotions. Seoho gives him a little smile—a shrug—takes in a breath.

“Wanted to apologize”

Dongju nearly rips his throat at that.

(“I don’t want to hear _shit_ if you—”

“I’ve talked to Hwanwoong” Seoho interrupts, voice a little loud, a little broken. Dongju stops—straightens up, still tense, squints at Seoho before sitting back down. Seoho takes a tentative step forward, towards the couch—Dongju doesn’t stop him this time, only clutches his blanket closer.

Seoho sits down next to him, leaves as much space as he can between them and crosses his legs—faces Dongju, plays with his fingers over his lap.

Dongju stays as he is, tense and recoiled into himself—eyes watching Seoho intently even in the dark, bright red and a little menacing.

Seoho swallows, looks down at his hands and continues talking.

“I’ve been—I’ve been avoiding you two, sorry, just—” He laughs a little, self-deprecating and quiet. “Didn’t know how to act—this happened before, in high school, remember? I just—” He shrugs, glances up at Dongju but sees nothing—eyes too unfocused and clouded with feelings. “I never learn.”

Dongju laughs—something ugly that burns at Seoho’s eyes and ears—

Not because it’s cruel, but because he sounds _upset—_ it’s laughter that carries words that keep running in circles, laughter that carries days days _days_ of Dongju trying to get a hold of Seoho and Seoho just _ignoring—_ days of Dongju’s sleepy complaints whenever Seoho visited Dongmyeong and refused to talk to Dongju past a greeting—days days _days_ of Dongju half-asleep at Hwanwoong’s place and looking hurt whenever Seoho simply _left_ as soon as he woke up—

“I thought you hated me” Dongju’s voice is painful painful _painful—_ Seoho looks up, eyes finding Dongju before his thoughts can catch up to his actions.

Dongju’s looking away—gaze down and blanket fallen off his shoulders and pooling around him—pretty blue against black clothes and pale skin. He looks small—smaller than usual, in his oversized sleeping clothes and with his blanket and curling in on himself and Seoho’s heart _hurts—_

“I wouldn’t—” He swallows, stops himself from reaching out. Dongju looks up at him with a glare, eyes back to pretty pink and eyelashes pretty _pretty_ — “Dongju, I really wouldn’t”

Dongju lets out a breath—a harsh and quiet laugh—looks back down, this time at his hands—and there’s a little gust of wind from closed windows as Seoho breathes out, screams at himself to just _reach out—_

“You’re too cute” And Dongju laughs—wind coiling around his hair and ruffling it, turning silver into a bigger mess that falls over his face. Seoho smiles—small but sincere because he _means it—_

He could never hate Dongju—he has always been too cute, has helped him out so _much—_

(Back in high school—when Keonhee and Hwanwoong had dated briefly—Dongju had helped him out a lot—

They had just met, and Dongju was on his last year of middle school—a little quiet as he stood behind the doorframe of the kitchen and watched curiously while Dongmyeong stood excitedly at the door, eager to meet someone who could help him go out in sunlight.

From the get-go, Seoho found the presence of both twins comfortable— found the ways in which they contrasted interesting—fun, even—with Dongmyeong’s little hurricane of a presence and Dongju’s quiet chaos—

Even though his brain was a mess and he had agreed mostly because he wanted to _forget_ , he found himself enjoying his time with them—enjoying explaining spells and what to take— how to take and prepare potions and whatever else for when they got sunburnt—on and on.

Even though his brain was a mess, he started getting closer to them—they were also part of the magic side, so he didn’t need to hide anything, didn’t need to be careful—and, once they got used to it and stopped complaining about Seoho making them _hungry_ , never minded the smell of blood, either, vampires as they were.

Seoho was never good at opening up, but it somehow came easy—

So, of course, when his stupid teenage self had burst into the twins’ house with red eyes and looking agitated, he ended up spilling out his heart—about not understanding things, about Hwanwoong not spending time with him, about how Keonhee was nice but Seoho just couldn’t look him in the _eye—_

And they had listened—Dongju had listened, had pat his head and lent him his blanket—had told him he didn’t really get it, but sometimes humans are complicated and _you’re a little human, too, hyung, it’s okay_ —

He couldn’t get himself to talk to Hwanwoong, so he turned to Dongju—again and again—and Dongju let him, helped him write messages that didn’t sound mean, helped him figure out words he never learnt how to say or construct into sentences and ideas—

And, finally, had helped him get the courage to apologize—to stop being defensive and to just say _sorry_ —And then he had hugged Seoho, despite his protests, and told him he was proud—

And Seoho’s heart had stirred—and he remembers crying just a little bit—

He could never hate Dongju.)

They end up sprawled on the couch—Dongju’s eyes teary as he pushes Seoho down and complains, tells him that now he had to cuddle him for payback because he was sleepy and he had been so _worried_ and he hates it but he _really_ likes Seoho and he didn’t want to be hated and he thought he did something wrong and he thought Hwanwoong would maybe get mad at him too and he thought he thought he _thought_ too much and—

Seoho only laughs, lets him complain and complain with nonsense—lets him settle on top of him and covered with his blanket, hair tickling Seoho’s neck.

(“You smell nice” Dongju’s voice is sleepy—he’s dozing off against Seoho, hands and everything still a little shaky form crying—edges of his eyes red and irises flicking pink and bright bright red.

“It’s the blood” Seoho laughs, pats at Dongju’s hair. “You’re hungry”

“’m not” A mumble—whiny and cute. Seoho laughs again, pulls at Dongju’s hair slightly to get another little whine out of him.

“Let’s go see Hwanwoong when you wake up?”

Dongju gives him a little nod before he falls asleep.)

____

Looking at Hwanwoong and Dongju cuddle still hurts a little bit, but Seoho learns he can ignore it if it’s to see them both happier—if it’s to make tension in the air dissipate.

He also learns it makes _him_ happy to see them happy, so he focuses on that—

And then things go back to normal, plus Dongju—Seoho walks in through Hwanwoong’s windows every night and has fun startling Keonhee every time—with the added bonus that now Dongju helps him out so they can both startle Hwanwoong, too.

It’s nice—it’s fun, Seoho missed this, missed _them._

(Seoho’s sitting on Hwanwoong’s couch, phone in his hands and looking at nothing on some dumb app, when he catches them out of the corner of his eye—

Hwanwoong and Dongju are by the door— Dongju had just arrived, Seoho had heard the ringing of the bell, had heard and seen Hwanwoong get up to open—and Dongju’s pouting, eyes red and hands gripping at the front of Hwanwoong’s shirt—

He looks— fuck, _okay_ , he looks _hungry._

Seoho stops processing words and actions—stops processing anything that isn’t the sharp shine of Dongju’s eyes, the line of his mouth— focuses on how his lips part, fangs peeking out as he whines something Seoho can’t understand because—

Because then Dongju’s leaning down, pushing the collar of Hwanwoong’s shirt aside with shaky fingers and biting around the junction of his neck and shoulder—and Hwanwoong gasps, quiet and pained—and then he’s gripping onto Dongju’s shirt _tightly_ and Dongju’s hair is such a pretty contrast against Hwanwoong’s since Hwanwoong dyed his back to black and and _and—_

A gust of air blows loud against his ears and over papers and things scattered around the living room—stops before it hits the other two, only brushes their hair softly, Seoho’s fist clenching against the fabric of his sweater.

His hands burn with sparks that go nowhere—Seoho throws his phone down on the couch and stands up, air blowing his hair into disarray that mirrors his thoughts and feelings—

Neither of them notices him get up—neither notices him running his hands through his hair and burning the tips—neither notices air from closed windows that makes Seoho trip on his way to the bathroom—

Neither notices anything at all—)

____

(“You’re torturing yourself” Sitting cross-legged on Youngjo’s bed, Seoho laughs—wind and sparks fly and push at his bangs and clothes, bring the smell of burning _something_ and take it away through a barely open window.

Youngjo, sitting on a chair across from Seoho, frowns—parts his lips again to talk.

“Seoho” Wind hits Youngjo—comes quick and all too delicate from Seoho’s direction, pushes back papers on the desk behind him, messes up Youngjo’s hair and makes him blinks his eyes closed a second. “You’re hurting, Seoho—you can’t—” Youngjo’s hands clench—tense over his legs—he bites his lip, catches Seoho’s eyes with a look that’s almost _pleading_ —

“I don’t want to see you hurting”

“Why?” Seoho pushes away from the wall—wind wind _wind_ picking up and almost pushing Youngjo backwards, makes the bedsheets push and fall off the bed— “Why does it matter if I’m hurting—”

“Because you matter—”

“If I’m used to it anyway—”

“You shouldn’t—” A gust from nowhere hits from behind Seoho— strong enough to almost make Youngjo _fall—_

Seoho’s face is a controlled smile even as wind turns and hits—even as his clothes spark spark _spark_ and red hairs sizzle and let out smoke and smell smell _smell—_

“I’ve been okay until now” And then the wind turns to nothing— wind turns from chaos so peace that somehow feels even more _wrong_ — “I’ll find a way”)

Seoho knows—knows that he has to learn to let go—knows that Youngjo’s words from weeks ago are _true—_

Even if he says he’s happy—even if he says that it’s okay—even if he insists and even if he’s just _fine_ as long as Hwanwoong is happy and _Dongju_ is happy—

Even if he’s fine— _should_ be fine—he’s starting to not understand anymore.

Liking Hwanwoong, liking Dongju—wanting to see them happy while feeling a void in his chest and somewhere _somewhere_ —

Liking Dongju, liking Hwanwoong—feeling the prickle of something something _something_ that’s not quite jealousy whenever they’re together.

Liking Hwanwoong, liking Dongju—being together and—

_Something—_

All his answers seem to be slipping from his fingertips, all those thoughts and feelings he thought he had made sense of years ago suddenly nothing nothing _nothing—_

(Seoho’s sitting on the floor of Youngjo’s living room—back to the couch and head resting against Youngjo’s knee. Youngjo’s hand is on his hair, fingers soft as they run through tangles here and there—stroke and mess up Seoho’s hair kindly. In front of them there’s turning papers—trash from Youngjo’s desk that Seoho had decided to play with while thinking thinking _thinking_.

Seoho’s eyes are lost—focusing on nothing as words turn in his head much like the paper over the shitty coffee table.

Youngjo’s hands make constant clicks—trackpad of his laptop and keyboard noisy _noisy_ — it all makes Seoho’s head go a little fuzzy, makes papers and nothing light up in a little fire that burns burns _burns—_

Ashes are in the air a second— then collapse and cover the table in bits of black black _black_ on wood mosaic. Seoho’s eye focus back again—he blinks—

The room smells like burnt paper—smells like blood from Seoho’s breath and smells like an avalanche of mistakes.

He lifts his head—turns a little on his side when he looks up at Youngjo, hands hurting against the cheap carpet, material burning burning with the strength of shaking and holding himself up.

“Youngjo-hyung” Seoho smiles, voice soft and a little playful. Youngjo’s hand falls from Seoho’s hair and to the cushion—and then Youngjo looks away from his computer screen, eyes wide and curious behind glasses that reflect green and pretty pretty.

“Yeah?” Seoho lets his head fall again—forehead hitting lightly against Youngjo’s knee.

If Youngjo can feel the way his clothes and skin burn where Seoho touches—if he can feel winds from nowhere running through his hair—then he doesn’t say anything.

He only waits.

Seoho breathes out a laugh, looks up at Youngjo with something that might be pained.

“Go out with me.”)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “I want to—” and he catches Youngjo’s eyes again, something hurting and desperate that mirrors _mirrors_ — “I want to try— I want to try with you”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! chapter contains mentions of burn wounds as well as patching them up and some imagery with blood/injury !!

When Youngjo tells Seoho that he kind of likes him—that he kind of wants to hold his hand and make him happy—Seoho’s not sure how to react.

(“I thought you liked Geonhak?” They’re in Youngjo’s kitchen, Seoho resting back against one of the counters while Youngjo pours himself a glass of water—casual, despite Youngjo having just confessed with a little smile and eyes holding all the kindness in the world.

“I do” Youngjo turns to look at Seoho, glass held in both hands.

(Seoho finds it amazing, really, how Youngjo can just _look_ at him—can just say his feelings in a way that seems so _easy,_ so honest and open—with nothing to fear and nothing to hurt—

He kind of envies him, too—

Seoho’s never been good at saying things, he’s never been good at expressing and being honest.)

“But I think I like _you_ , too” He moves the glass in his hands from side to side—breaks eye contact to take a careful sip of his water—and then he smiles again. “It’s kinda weird, huh”

Seoho shrugs, hands in his pockets and eyes darting around the kitchen. “You know I—”

“I do” Youngjo interrupts, leaves his glass on the counter—fixes his eyes on the water that goes up, down, up, down… “I just wanted to tell you”)

He spends weeks thinking about it—weeks where he’s staring at nothing lost in the sky and wondering—

(“Why won’t you tell Geonhak, then?” Youngjo looks up from his laptop, turns around to face away from the desk and towards Seoho—this time they’re in Youngjo’s room, Seoho sitting on his bed on his phone while Youngjo works.

“Don’t wanna” Youngjo shrugs, taps nonsense melodies against the desk with careful fingers. Seoho cocks an eyebrow, Youngjo gives him an awkward laugh.

“And yet you tell _me_ to—” Youngjo stands up, Seoho stops talking—eyes him carefully.

“Can’t hurt him” It’s not that he doesn’t want to, Seoho notices, it’s that he _can’t—_

He doesn’t know all that much about Youngjo and Geonhak—about how they met and how their relationship goes down to the deeper currents—he doesn’t think he’s ever really going to know—

But he knows there’s something _important_ —something important to Youngjo—a reason why he swears his romantic love away and offers his heart even so.

Seoho smiles—a crooked thing. “You can hurt _me_ , though?” Youngjo walks towards the bed, laughs as he pushes Seoho aside to sit down next to him.

“You’re not hurt” Seoho lets out an offended gasp, drops his phone on the bed. Youngjo smiles at him, easy and comfortable. “You like Hwanwoong, and _I_ ’ll find a way to move on”)

He doesn’t _mean_ to play with Youngjo’s feelings—he’s not that kind of person, never will be—

They just _both_ need to move on—Seoho from Hwanwoong and Youngjo from Geonhak—and Youngjo likes Seoho, and Youngjo’s cute, caring, willing to give Seoho his heart and everything and—

It’s a way to help each other out.

(“What?” Youngjo closes his laptop carefully—eyes shaky and confused confused _confused—_ “Why?”

Seoho shrugs, straightens up—keeps looking at Youngjo. “You like Geonhak, yeah?”

Youngjo nods—blinks—puts his laptop aside and digs his fingers into the cushion. “But I like _you—”_

“But it’s not—it’s not a lot, right?” Youngjo lets out a noise—but he nods again, affirmation. Seoho smiles, pushes himself up and lands to sit on the couch easily, close enough to feel Youngjo’s _warmth_. “And I—I like Hwanwoong, but—” He shrugs, awkward, tries to find words stuck in the whirlwind of his mind. “You’re cute, too—I think I could—” A breath, Youngjo’s eyes seem almost like he’s about to _cry—_ “I think I could get to like you, too, just—”

There’s wind here and there—wind that throws Seoho’s bangs over his eyes and wind that makes Youngjo’s hair ruffle up and then cutely in every direction—

“Oh”)

Youngjo doesn’t reject him.

Even if something in Seoho wished for it—just as an excuse to sort himself out and talk to Hwanwoong, a last sliver of hope in the mess of his mind—

Youngjo doesn’t reject him— only holds his hand lightly over worn out cushions, shaky fingers intertwining with Seoho’s, Youngjo’s breathing something uneven even as he lets out a laugh—

(“Okay” A whisper, Youngjo’s hold a little tight on Seoho’s fingers. Youngjo’s everything is shaking, wrong choices a whirlwind over both of them that bring papers and nothing down down and all over the floor. “You could—you could get to like me, and—”

He coughs—a hidden sob, a little scared—Seoho can only hold his hand back, eyes lost looking at nothing, embers burning the corners of his eyes and the tips of his fingers.

“You _could_ —You could—” and wind turns and turns and _turns—_ Youngjo’s hair on his eyes and Seoho’s everything lacking lacking lacking _air—_

“Help you, if—” Seoho interrupts, voice too loud and too desperate, licks his lips—turns off fire until there’s nothing but sickening cold in ever millimetre of skin. “If you’d let me, just—”

“If you’d let _me—”_ Youngjo’s eyes flicker over to his laptop—to the table and to fallen papers and pens that keep moving on the carpet and make noises that are almost imperceptible. “Let yourself—let yourself even like me, then—”

“I want to—” and he catches Youngjo’s eyes again, something hurting and desperate that mirrors _mirrors—_ “I want to try— I want to try with you”

“Okay” the whirlwind stops—Seoho’s thoughts turned to nothing, wind that cuts at his neck an afterthought of fire—an afterthought of choices that will weigh until they _crash—_

Youngjo smiles at him—something sad, something painful—

He’s not sure which of them leans in first—but they kiss each other quiet.)

They try—they hold hands and kiss until Seoho’s brain is numb—cuddle and talk about nothing on the couch until the sun’s almost out and Youngjo’s falling asleep against Seoho, breathing soft and hums so _quiet—_

(“Should we tell…?” Seoho’s voice is a whisper, something he meant to keep to himself but escaped—Youngjo makes a questioning noise, cute and half-asleep, curly hair tickling Seoho’s neck as he nuzzles closer.

It’s a little hard, but Seoho doesn’t push him away.

“Tomorrow” soft—Youngjo’s breathing warm and all too cold. “We can talk tomorrow”

Seoho nods with a quiet _okay,_ ignores the way the windows rattle with a wind that’s nowhere and the taste of burning from the back of his throat.)

This is the right choice— kissing Youngjo’s the right choice, learning to love him is the right choice—

(Seoho tells himself so over and over, hands in his hair as it sizzles with fire he can’t control, sink of the bathroom with spilled tears and blood he’s spitting out in disgust at _himself—)_

This is the right thing to do—

(He’s not playing with Youngjo—he’s not playing with himself, he’s not throwing feelings away— he’s just trying to move _on_.)

____

Their friend group is a little scattered, so getting them together and announcing seems like too much of a hassle—so they decide to simply let it _happen—_ a little secret between the two of them that they share between kisses—one that the others can just figure out on their own.

Geonhak notices first—maybe because Seoho’s been spending so much more time with Youngjo, slipping into their dance lessons with snacks that Youngjo likes and running his fingers through sweaty curls with a little too much care—maybe because Geonhak’s just _sharp_ like that, able to pick up on things that Seoho couldn’t ever make sense of—maybe because he’s known Youngjo so long—

Whatever the reason, he notices first, hands in his pockets as the three of them walk through a random park at night. One of Youngjo’s hands is in Seoho’s pocket, a little shaky with thoughts Seoho can’t understand.

(“Can I… ask something?” Geonhak’s voice is a little unsure—a quiet and delicate thing that could fade together with passing wind. Seoho turns around to look at him—stops walking when he feels Youngjo’s hand tense in his and sees _something_ spilling from Geonhak’s figure.

“Shoot” Light-hearted, Seoho’s head cocked to the side slightly. Geonhak gives him and awkward smile, scratches at the back of his neck as he seems to try and figure out _words—_

“Are you guys—” He stops, eyes lost somewhere on the floor and bangs falling on his face—he frowns, hand hovering in the air a little awkwardly between them. “like, together?”

Youngjo’s breath hitches—Seoho feels wind that hits _hard_ at the back of his neck and the trees around them—

“Yeah” and it’s Youngjo who speaks up, sweat _cold_ on Seoho’s hand and breathing something that might just break apart—

But even so he’s smiling—something breath-taking that makes Seoho want to rip at his hair until he bleeds, somehow—

“Oh” Geonhak’s eyes widen a little—something undecipherable a flash before it disappears just as quick. “Since—since when?” a little surprised—questioning and something something _something something something something—_

“A week?” Seoho gives him a crooked smile—a shrug.

“Ah” Geonhak blinks, flicks his eyes away and back—runs a hand through his hair to push his bangs back. “Congrats?” And there’s this _thing—_ something that makes the last sound lilt up and then down again, something that makes his voice feel like it’s cracking, something that makes Youngjo swallow and let out a laugh that’s just _awkward—_

“Thank you” and Seoho’s fingertips are _burning—_ enough that Youngjo bites his tongue and recoils—

But then he holds Seoho’s hand tighter—something like reassurance in the burn, and Seoho’s everything is ice against the storm.)

They drop the topic after a few awkward laughs, and neither brings it up again the rest of their walk—Geonhak seems a little bit recoiled, and Youngjo’s grip on Seoho’s hand is something _desperate_ , but they stay together, wind cold as it hits their skin and words a mess of nothing that snaps in the air.

Later— after Geonhak’s parted ways with a mumble and a polite _good night_ — Seoho goes home with Youngjo to drop him off, silence heavy even as Youngjo’s keys clink in his hands and on the door. Seoho’s hands are in his pockets, sparks something subsided even as gusts in the wrong direction sting at his eyes—he gives Youngjo a smile, parts his lips to say good night—

“Stay” Youngjo’s voice is something so _delicate—_ something weaker than even silence as his hand _clings_ to the sleeve of Seoho’s jacket, pull imperceptible as his eyes seem to burn with tears. “Please stay”

So Seoho does.

(They end up curled up together in Youngjo’s bed, ache of something familiar scratching and Seoho’s every nerve. The covers are thrown over them without any care, Youngjo’s glasses discarded somewhere by the pillow, jackets both thrown on the floor and Youngjo’s skin _painful_ where it touches Seoho’s.

Seoho’s heart is a numb storm in his chest—something muted even as Youngjo clings to his front, cries soundlessly against Seoho’s neck and shirt.

Seoho cards fingers through wavy locks, hums a song to fill the silence as he feels Youngjo’s tears soak his shirt—feels wind that pushes Youngjo’s hair and bedsheets—wind that’s loud in his ears and takes his breath away.

“Why” and then Youngjo chokes on a sob, rubs at his face with so little care it looks _painful_ —lets go of Seoho’s shirt with a cough—shaky breathing until he can open his eyes again, hazy and lost and _red_ — “why does it have to hurt—” and he laughs, something broken against Seoho’s skin, something broken that tears Seoho apart. “why am I even _crying—”_

Seoho doesn’t have an answer—Seoho doesn’t understand.

“I don’t know—” And Seoho’s voice almost _breaks—_ chokes and clogs and feels drawn and stretched too thin— “I’m sorry—”

Feels like it snaps—breathing a gargled mess as he drops his head against Youngjo’s, hands careful on his hair, caresses at the nape of his neck. “But it’s okay to cry, hyung” Youngjo chokes out a sob, curls in on himself a little more—grips Seoho’s shirt a little _tighter_ —and Seoho’s hands fall to nothing on the bedsheets, grip of something like guilt and regret and _something—_

 _Something—_ something he doesn’t understand—something he shouldn’t have done—

Seoho doesn’t cry—holds back tears even as the windows hit and _hit and hit_ and the room’s drowning in currents of air that go nowhere and feel like whips at Seoho’s skin and even as everything feels _hot_ and freezing and _hot and burning_ and it smells like smoke and—

“You’re burning your shirt” lilted with laughter despite sniffles and tears—Youngjo’s eyes kind as he runs his fingers over remnants of little sparks of fire—Seoho laughs, too, catches Youngjo’s hand with a confused shrug.

“Sorry” it slips out, and Youngjo gives him a smile—one that stabs and stings at the corners of Seoho’s heart—and then he links their fingers together so _softly—_

“I’m sorry, too” And then Youngjo’s kissing him before he can reply, and it tastes like tears and confusion—tastes like tears and mistakes and tastes like hope that burns like a little fire, one that’s on Seoho’s fingertips and now Youngjo’s, too—tastes like a choice with one too many paths undiscovered—

Seoho’s not sure if he likes it, but he falls asleep to the lull of Youngjo’s breathing in his arms.)

____

Hwanwoong notices second (or, maybe he was first—always sharper than Seoho, always careful and _worried_ —maybe he had noticed before Geonhak had, maybe he had notices from day one—), side-glances at Seoho when he shows up on his window in the middle of the night. Dongju’s there, too, eyes curious as he opens the door—bright pink something that stirs Seoho’s heart until he wants to _leave—_

(“Why didn’t you tell me?” And it’s playful pout on Hwanwoong’s lips—something playful that reaches his eyes as he stands from his desk and takes hold of Seoho’s arm. Seoho blinks—catches the worried tilt of Dongju’s eyebrows—and then he smiles, pushes Hwanwoong’s hand away— pretends the window closing from the wind was on purpose.

“Tell you what?” Seoho’s tone is light, shoes held in his hand as he tilts his head to the side. “I never tell you when I’m coming over”

Hwanwoong laughs—something that Seoho feels almost _forced—_ “Not that, hyung”

“Then what?” He crosses the room with ease, opens the door to head to the living room. Hwanwoong follows, Dongju’s hand held tightly in his (and Seoho pretends that doesn’t hurt him—pretends it’s fine and _he’s fine_ and pretends his own wind doesn’t make him almost trip).

“About—” And Hwanwoong seems to pause—seems to catch his breath and _choke—_

“Youngjo-hyung—about Youngjo-hyung” Dongju finishes—cuts the air and Hwanwoong’s words— seems to hold Hwanwoong’s hand tighter. “You’re dating, right?”

Seoho can only smile, wind dropping his shoes much too harshly on the floor and tips of his hair sending sparks flying.

“Yeah”)

Seoho hates that he’s an open book to them, but, at the very least, it means he doesn’t really have to explain—all he needs to do is shrug, mumble words that are playful and dripping with _lies—_ apologies for hiding things, apologies about feelings he doesn’t feel, apologies about hiding and sincerity in his thanks when Hwanwoong hugs him with a smile—

He understands why Youngjo cried, then—understands the choking feeling that almost makes him burn and suffocate in Hwanwoong’s living room, hands in the pockets of his jacket and a hurricane he keeps outside _haunting_.

(He ends up going home that night—head in disarray even as Hwanwoong pouts cutely up at him, even as Dongju clings to his arm and whines that he misses him, wants to spend more time with him—whines that his _boyfriend_ has been taking him away—that _Youngjo-hyung won’t share_ and Dongju doesn’t like that—

Even as Hwanwoong sits half on his lap and ends up falling asleep while Seoho looks at _nothing_ on his phone and talks about nonsense that Dongju entertains—

Maybe it’s _because_ of that that he’s in disarray, actually—because Hwanwoong’s warm on his chest and Dongju’s voice is a melody he loves—because Hwanwoong’s sleepy whines stab at his heart like arrows from a morbid god—because Dongju’s fingers on Hwanwoong’s hair bring burning to Seoho’s eyes until he can’t process anything that’s not the sting of fire under his clothes—

(“Is this really—” Dongju’s eyes are worried under his glasses, flicker pink and red like they always do when he’s close to Seoho, ever-present smell of blood making Dongju’s fangs stab at his lower lip. “okay? About Youngjo-hyung—”

“I’m okay” And Seoho does his best to smile, Hwanwoong’s voice a quiet hum that Seoho feels against the skin of his neck—breathing freezing against skin that wants to burn—There’s strong wind against the curtains, against closed windows and making used plates rattle in a pile, but none of them pay that any mind. “I really—I really do like him, you know? I’m okay” and his voice is quiet quiet _quiet—_ and Hwanwoong’s gripping on his shirt _just_ a little tighter, other hand linked with Dongju’s close close _close—_

And Dongju’s head rests against Seoho’s shoulder—and he’s so _warm_ and _safe_ and _painful painful painful—_

“I’m happy for you, then” And then Dongju goes quiet—and Hwanwoong’s _tense_ —and Seoho can’t _understand—_

There are no answers to be found anymore—there’s no reason and there’s no meaning—

There’s nothing that grounds Seoho in reality, so he runs away.)

He enters his apartment in a haze—trips over messy clothes and over cables he can’t remember why he put out—trips over nothing and trips over air that betrays betrays _betrays betrays betrays—_

He makes it to the bathroom door, somehow, doesn’t bother with closing it as he falls against the sink, hands on cool porcelain hurting hurting _hurting—_

He catches sight of himself in the mirror— lets out a sharp laugh at the same time the door slams shut behind him.

(He ends up on the floor—knees burning on cool flooring and glasses tossed away—his phone in his pocket feels like a _curse—_ every vibration igniting _something_ until all Seoho can feel is _pain—_

Even though the floor is cold—even though the heating is off and it’s almost _November_ —even though everything feels like it should _freeze_ —Seoho feels like he’s on fire—feels like his own _everything_ is betraying him until he can’t control it anymore—feels like nothing makes sense anymore—feels like feels like _feels like—_

He drops his head—rests his forehead against the wall with eyes tightly shut—and breathes—breathes heavy and _painful_ against chipped paint until his lungs hurt _hurt hurt—_

He coughs—sobs that are something loud and stuck in his throat—voice that is lost in a labyrinth and breaks through wall and steel—voice that is lost and comes out with a thousand spikes—a choked scream as he spits out something _burnt—_

The door rattles behind him—the mirror overhead shaking with strength of wind that Seoho can’t _stop—_

And then the floor dyes in red— red that falls from his lips and ripped skin—red that reflects off his arms and red that’s a mix of fire and _blood—_

He jumps back, hits on the door and hears wind that’s too loud and too fast and—

And he’s _burning—_ his skin is burning and his eyes are hazy and everything hurts and and and _and and—_

He sobs again—rests his head back on the door and tries to breathe—)

He burns his shirt—burns at the walls and doors and leaves them ugly _black—_ burns his bangs enough he needs to cut them nicer—burns his skin enough he needs to call Giwook for help—burns his heart enough he forgets how to _feel_.

He goes to bed with a bandaged arm and hair lighter—goes to bed with pain that’s emotional as much as it’s physical—goes to bed with a shattered window he promises himself to get fixed the next day—goes to bed with the taste of blood and losing control.

____

(Youngjo kisses at the edges of his bandage—kisses at his cheeks and the corners of his eyes until Seoho almost cries—kisses at little forming scabs and scars—kisses at Seoho’s lips until his skin feels less dry and the smell of blood is seeping into Youngjo’s ever limb—

“What happened?” And Youngjo’s window _rattles—_ stops in a second with Seoho’s breathing—and then Youngjo kisses him again, hands kind on Seoho’s hair and neck, and he brings Seoho’s breath back enough—

“I don’t know” A whisper— confession of weakness and of feeling lost. “I don’t know what’s happening”

“Seoho—” And Youngjo’s frowning—worried and so full of _love—_

Seoho wants to throw up.

“I talked to Hwanwoong—talked to Dongju—” He swallows, eyes wide and unseeing as he recalls and turns turns turns questions without answer “And it hurt—it hurt and” And he doesn’t want to say things—doesn’t want to make them real but he craves to _understand—_

Youngjo only smiles at him—something that pulls at his heartstrings and makes him feel warmth all the same—something that brings Seoho to reality and to the weight of his choices.

“Do you want to—” and Seoho cuts him off, hands a desperate grip on Youngjo’s shirt as he pulls him in for a kiss that’s _painful._

“I want to love you” and they kiss again, and Seoho pretends he doesn’t notice the way Youngjo shakes—pretends he doesn’t notice the wind that seems to want to push hem away—pretends he doesn’t notice the way there’s something that burns the both of them even after they let go.)

He falls asleep holding Youngjo’s hand—face buried against Youngjo’s chest and a fake sense of peace washing over the world.

____

He starts burning himself a lot more after that—not because he wants to, but because he can’t _control—_ because his own magic’s turning against him at the same time his emotions and sense of the world turn to nothing and turn in chaos.

Youngjo helps him—runs his hands through Seoho’s hair when Seoho’s limbs burn, holds him close even when Seoho’s smiling as he burns, holds him close even when he’s not hurting—

Youngjo helps him, does his best, kisses at Seoho’s cheek and makes him laugh like he’s in love—holds his hand and drags him in public in a hundred dates—spends enough time together that the smell of blood seeps into his clothes—enough time together that Geonhak starts to seem a little more comfortable—starts to seem a little happier when Youngjo smiles at Seoho in a way that’s heart-breaking.

Youngjo helps him—and Seoho really _wants_ to love him—wants to kiss back with just as much affection and care—wants to be able to hold his hand and whisper that he’s in _love_ without it being a lie—

But he can’t.

(“You know,” Youngjo starts light—chin resting on Seoho’s shoulder while Seoho rinses dishes without much care. Seoho hums in reply, leaves clean dishes to the side and turns off the tap—rests his head against Youngjo’s with a sigh. “We can’t really go on like this forever”

Seoho reaches for one of Youngjo’s hands—places one of his own over it at the same time he smiles. “Guess not, huh” and there’s a light breeze on his hair, there’s fire in the air that fades in something like a second. “But we can last enough?” and it’s something like a wish—a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in—it’s something like hope that it will be _okay—_

“Enough?” and Youngjo’s voice is a whisper, something delicate and wondering _and_ —

Seoho doesn’t reply.)

And because he’s spending so much more time with Youngjo, he visits Hwanwoong less—visits so little it has Keonhee calling him to complain he misses him— even if he _hates_ that Seoho’s always coming in through his window and making a mess of the house, even if Keonhee can’t _stand_ Youngjo’s flirty gaze when he shows up at the door holding Seoho’s hand, even if—

He visits so little that Hwanwoong texts him that he _misses_ him— so little that Dongju whines and pulls on his arm whenever they see each other, whines about Youngjo taking up his time again and again, whines that _hyung’s been even_ more _gone since that time he didn’t even stay over_ and _Dongju misses him and misses being able to bother him and he misses when Hwanwoong complained and—_

It stirs Seoho’s heart—knowing that he’s so missed—stirs Seoho’s heart when Dongmyeong tells him that Dongju’s been down for a week or two, complaining that Seoho won’t answer his calls and that it’s _always_ because Seoho’s with Youngjo.

It’s really not that he’s avoiding them this time—and they can tell—because Seoho replies as soon as he can, visits when he’s not busy and when his brain’s light—It’s just that he’s trying to move _on—_ spends time with Youngjo that’s genuine even through their mess of feelings, learns about his music and about dance—promises to help him out with lunch and promises to make sure Geonhak’s fine— goes along with Youngjo to late night outings to look for the supernatural that Seoho knows like the back of his hand—

And he bickers with Geonhak like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and he learns to fall in love with being alive a little more—and he learns to let his brain go and control his magic again—and he learns about feeling and about love—

And he learns, as well, that he can’t simply _let go—_

(“I miss you” Honest and clear—Hwanwoong’s hands on the windowsill as he looks at Seoho floating outside—something like a ghost in the middle of the day. “You never come by anymore”

Seoho smiles, hands in his pockets and strands of red tickling at his ears— “Sorry”

Hwanwoong pouts, reaches out—stops his hand when it’s almost on Seoho’s, eyes a little lost and maybe a little _sad—_ “You’re leaving me” and it’s playful, light—

“I’m not” and it hurts—hurts with embers that Seoho’s learnt to hide under his clothes even as they burn—hurts with wind that makes him trip forward, enough that his forehead is almost against Hwanwoong’s—enough that the ends of Hwanwoong’s hair are sizzling a second, blown back by wind and warm warm _warm_ where they tickle Seoho’s skin.

He laughs, light—holds Hwanwoong’s hand light light and gone a second—and it’s painful when he speaks, wind loud in his ears and Hwanwoong’s breathing a lullaby.

“I’d never leave you, dumbass.”)

And he learns that he likes Hwanwoong’s black hair best—learns that he likes to dye _his_ hair when things are out of place—learns that Youngjo’s hands are soft on his scalp when he helps—learns that Keonhee’s willing to look for him when he’s gone—

(“You know, Woong’s been sulky lately” Seoho’s sitting on the couch of Hwanwoong’s apartment, Keonhee’s legs draped over him as they wait—Hwanwoong’s still out, probably in class or at the dance studio, so Seoho had bugged Keonhee out of his room until he agreed to keep him company.

“That so?” And he gives him half of his attention—unwilling to think about nuances and about feelings. Keonhee sighs with a nod, sits up and lets one of his legs fall to the floor—gets close enough he can flick at Seoho’s face.

“Yeah” A worried frown—an annoyed little sigh. “Stares at his phone until you reply—sometimes he leaves the window open, even”

“You’re both gonna catch a cold like that” Keonhee shrugs, runs his hand through the side of Seoho’s hair—past now purple bangs that tickle and burn.

“That’s why I close it.”)

Learns that Keonhee’s quiet, sometimes, learns that Hwanwoong looks good in pink—hair dyed a cute pastel when he gets home to find Seoho sitting on his bed.

(“You dyed—?” Seoho pulls at his own strands of hair softly—a vague gesture to show Hwanwoong what he means. Hwanwoong nods, nonchalant, drops his bag somewhere in the room and sits on his desk chair in front of Seoho.

“You didn’t tell me you’d dye yours—” and their matching earrings burn, and the promises from high school bleed out like a grotesque show from his fingertips—flow together with wind that’s muted and far _far_ away. “Revenge”

A sickly-sweet smile, sickly-bitter lack of understanding, a sickly-sour hurricane of thoughts and feelings.

“Oh” and Hwanwoong smiles—that pretty thing that’s stayed the same since they were kids, that pretty thing that stole Seoho’s heart since before he had even _noticed_ —that pretty pretty smile that reaches Hwanwoong’s eyes and lights up Seoho’s heart—

That pretty pretty smile that’s now tinted with something Seoho doesn’t _understand—_ something that’s not pretty and yet adds to the beauty—adds to everything that Seoho _loves—_

“It suits you” Hwanwoong laughs, eyes half-open and hands playing with his sleeves— “The pink—it really suits you”

“Purple suits you too” He lets go of his sleeves, looks at the window and at the floor. “It all suits you a lot”)

Seoho doesn’t know what that means, so he doesn’t ask—Seoho doesn’t know what anything means, so he focuses on trying to love and on being loved back—

He knows that he can’t let go easily—he knows that it’s all in vain—but he doesn’t know—

He doesn’t know anything at all.

_____

And because he burns himself so often, and because Dongju loves to cling to his arms, and because Seoho can’t help feeling _pain_ when his clothes rub against wounds and Dongju’s hands fall over forming scabs—Dongju notices his burns, notices the flinches and the smell of _hurt_ that goes beyond the usual smell of blood—

(“What happened?” and it’s all so _hopeless—_ the windows rattle around them and the ceiling fan spins and _spins_ without reason, wind going nowhere inside Dongju’s bedroom. “You’re hurt, hyung”

“I’m not” denial that’s far too quick—turns Dongju’s expression sour as he reaches out and digs his fingers into Seoho’s arm, right over where a bandage meets his sleeve and meets his skin, right over a burn that he’d gotten after Hwanwoong dyed his hair.

“You’re hurt” scolding, frown on his face as he pulls Seoho close—

But Seoho doesn’t let him, pulls back and brings pain to _himself_ and then doesn’t move—

“I’m fine” stern, desperate—Dongju’s hand letting go of him—

A breath.

“You’re lying again” Dongju’s hand grabs onto Seoho’s wrist, skin cold as his eyes shine _red—_ “You’re lying again, Seoho”

“I’m older than you” A frown, tone playful and _lost—_ “I’m not—”

“I don’t care” Dongju’s grip turns tighter—and Seoho can’t find it in himself to even try to pull away—can’t find it in himself to use magic to push him away and free himself, even if he could, even if it wouldn’t even be hard— “Why’re you lying?”

“It’s nothing big” And both their voices are quiet _quiet_ —Dongju’s eyes dulling to the pink Seoho loves so much. “I didn’t want to worry you” Seoho places his hand over Dongju’s, pries his hold away—fingers something delicate in Seoho’s touch. “I’m sorry”

“It smells bad” Dongju’s eyes are piercing on Seoho’s—demanding and questioning and Seoho’s a _coward—_ “It smells burnt”

Seoho’s arm _hurts—_ Seoho’s arm is fire on Dongju’s ice-cold skin—

“You’re _burning_ , hyung”)

Dongju drags him to the bathroom after that, sits Seoho down on the edge of the bathtub before giving him a glare—he leaves and comes back with a shirt, one of those cute over-sized ones that Dongju likes to wear at home, shoves it at Seoho with a stern _change into that_ before he steps out of the bathroom.

The door stays open, wind pushing it against the wall—Seoho changes shirt soundlessly, eyes the little burns and stains from marred skin on his shirt (it’s ruined already, Youngjo would get sad again—it was one of his shirts, one he had given Seoho with a smile that said he didn’t need to give it back but that he liked the shirt anyway)—he sighs, puts on Dongju’s shirt and ignores the way it just smells so much like _him._

(Dongju’s hands are kind as he applies human antiseptic, carefully peels off soiled bandages and cleans out wounds that Seoho had given much too little care to—wounds that Youngjo hadn’t seen because Seoho felt too _much—_

“It’s the first time” Seoho blinks, looks at the mess of Dongju’s silver hair with unfocused eyes—jumps at the feeling of cold _cold_ skin on his wounds. “I actually smell your blood on you”

Seoho’s breathing hitches—and the door hits like a storm, toothbrushes fall off and into the sink— “Is it?”

Dongju nods, looks up just as he finishes applying gauze—eyes red and lips parted. “It smells nice”

Seoho wishes Dongju would bite him, then—wishes Dongju would dig his fangs into Seoho’s wrist and _claim—_

The door hits again, Seoho recoils—holds onto his own hand and gives Dongju a smile with closed eyes.

He doesn’t know what his thoughts mean—

He doesn’t want to know what his thoughts mean.)

____

 _It’s lonely without you around you know_ , a simple text in the middle of the night, Hwanwoong’s name something that burns every millimetre of skin and of _air—_

 _Dongju said you’re hurt_ , breathing that loses its pace, limbs that won’t stop shaking—

 _I don’t get magic all too much but—_ and Seoho feels like he’s _suffocating_ , phone held in his hands as he sits on a bench in the park of their childhood and tries to remember to _breathe— is fire hurting you?_

 _I’m worried about you,_ and a second, _are things okay with Youngjo-hyung?_

And another second—

_Will you let me help you out, even once?_

(Seoho can’t reply to that, so he shoves his phone in his pocket and runs.)

____

Every time he goes to Dongju’s place, Dongju cleans up his wounds—sometimes smaller ones, sometimes bigger ones—sometimes with antiseptic and sometimes with a lick to his skin—

Every time he goes to Dongju’s place, checks with Dongmyeong to make sure he’s taking enough care, Dongju’s a little quieter—a little more recoiled even as he patches Seoho up and complains about him not taking care—

Every time, without fail, Dongju’s grip turns a little weaker.

And, eventually, his grip turns to nothing at all—

(“I don’t get it” Dongju’s voice is quiet—he’s kneeling on the floor by his bed, Seoho sitting over it and letting Dongju take off the bandage from wounds that are already close to healing—Seoho cocks his head to the side, makes a quiet noise of _question_.

“Hm?” Dongju huffs, then, drops used gauze and cotton on the floor with tired eyes.

“You” He looks up at Seoho, then, eye contact something Seoho can’t break—something that entrances him as much as Hwanwoong’s smile, as much as the chime of Hwanwoong’s voice when he’s half-asleep and clinging to whoever’s closest for a sense of _warmth—_ “Your wounds, burnt skin, your—”

Something that entrances him as much as the colour of Hwanwoong’s eyes at sunset, something that entrances him as much as being in love—

“Your lies” And Dongju doesn’t even look angry—just looks resigned and _confused—_ “I don’t understand what you want from us—I don’t understand you”

Seoho doesn’t understand himself either—

Seoho can’t deny that he’s lying— can’t explain anything because he doesn’t _understand—_

“I’m so—” Dongju’s eyes flick away—come back in a glare as he sticks surgical tape to his skin—

“Don’t say you’re sorry” and he places Seoho’s arm on the bed so _softly—_ “You can’t apologize if you don’t get it” a whisper, something painful that has Seoho wanting to _grasp—_ wanting to just hold on and try to make _sense—_

Dongju’s gaze softens, hand going up to play with purple strands that fall on Seoho’s face— “Your hair’s growing back fast” a whisper, a touch to his cheek—cold and then _nothing—_ “don’t become someone else”)

The next time Seoho comes by, it’s already winter—Dongju doesn’t do anything but wave at him with a small smile, eyes a pale and flickering red before he goes into his room—

Seoho turns Dongju’s words around like they’re a theorem to proof—like they’re something to memorize and something that could unlock the meaning of the world, if only he’d come to understand them.

(Dongju’s hands are always cold, but— somehow— even sparks of fire in Seoho’s hands can’t compare to the warmth of Dongju’s skin.)

_____

Youngjo keeps loving him—keeps giving him kisses and promising filth and kindness—Youngjo keeps loving him even when Seoho doesn’t know how to try anymore—

(Youngjo’s lips and skin are _warm—_ warm enough to turn Seoho’s thoughts to nothing, warm enough to turn Seoho’s breathing erratic and _needy—_

Youngjo’s hands are careful—and he holds Seoho like he’s something _precious—_ like he’s someone Youngjo couldn’t bare to even scratch or cause pain to—like he’s someone that’s to be _loved_ —)

They’re both sitting against the headboard of Youngjo’s bed, Seoho wearing a hoodie he stole from Youngjo’s pile of clothes, Youngjo in a light t-shirt despite the cold that seeps in despite the heating—wind blowing and turning against closed windows.

Seoho’s hands burn where he has them on the bed, and he feels the closest to crying he has in a while—

(“Youngjo-hyung?” Youngjo looks up from his phone, eyes kind as he finds Seoho in almost darkness.

“Yeah?” Seoho doesn’t turn to the side, lets the sleeves of the hoodie hide his hands and breathes out.

“Love you” something unsure and something untrue—something quiet quiet _quiet_ in their play-pretend.)

Youngjo makes a quiet noise, something Seoho can’t decipher, something that starts to hurt—and then he leaves his phone on the floor next to the bed, pushes blankets off his legs and moves so he’s sitting in front of Seoho, legs on either side of him and hands soft soft _soft_ where they pull on his hair—

Youngjo kisses him like it’s the end of the world— kisses him like it’s what Youngjo needs—kisses him until Seoho’s hands are gripping at Youngjo’s shirt and Youngjo’s hands are on Seoho’s face—

And then Youngjo pulls away, moonlight from drawn curtains making his eyes shine as they take Seoho in—

One of Youngjo’s hands holds onto Seoho’s and intertwines their fingers—and then Youngjo smiles, something sad and a little broken.

(“Let’s end this here, Seoho” Youngjo’s shoulders drop with his words, eyes teary and lips _shaking—_ voice at its end, voice drawn to the limit— and Seoho holds on—holds onto his hand with guilt and apologies _and_ —

And Youngjo holds back with something resigned, holds back with affection and care even as he shatters a little bit more—even as he breathes in with a quiet sob—

“You don’t need to lie anymore.)”


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Can you—” Seoho swallows, cuts Dongju off—plays with a little fire on his hand, one that dances _dances_ in Seoho’s eyes, much like Hwanwoong always has, much like Dongju does too, sometimes, when Hwanwoong takes his hand and pulls him along and into his pace— “please wait for me, just a little more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> implied drinking at a point but nothing like.. out of hand just a little mention in one scene!

_I want to love you—_ uttered over and over again—something Seoho’s lips had memorized the shape and feel of, the sound and breath of every word, the burn and drag of syllables that spilt spilt _spilt_ past fire and wind—

 _I want to love you—_ repeated repeated _repeated—_ repeated against Youngjo’s lips, repeated against heated skin in the depths of their mistakes, repeated _repeated_ against whispers and the colours of the night—

_I want to love you. I want to love you. I want to love you. I want to love you._

(“What do you—” a choked breath, Seoho’s hold on Youngjo’s hand tight tight _tight— “_ What do you mean?”

And Youngjo’s fingers are soft _soft_ on Seoho’s face—careful caress to his cheek, lips—

Youngjo gives him a smile—something that barely lifts the corners of his mouth—something that’s so _painful—_

“You don’t love me, Seoho” and then his touch falls, hand dropping to Seoho’s shoulder—something careful as Youngjo fixes the collar of the hoodie with so, so much _love—_ “It’s okay”

“I want to—” Seoho _chokes_ , reaches out desperate for Youngjo’s hand when he pulls it away—holds on like a lifeline, like it’s something he can’t bear to lose, like it’s— “I really—”

“I know” Youngjo holds his hand back, grip something careful _careful_ until it falls on his lap. “I know you do”

“Then why—” Youngjo lets go of both of their held hands, and Seoho doesn’t _know—_ doesn’t know if he should reach out and pull _back—_ doesn’t know if he should let him go and let it all burn, doesn’t know if—

“You don’t love me” and Youngjo’s smile is so _painful_ , hands and everything falling until he’s sitting down and Seoho can’t feel his warmth anymore and he’s so _so_ far away— “But I do, Seoho”

The hurricane of emotions in his head halts _halts—_ halts together with wind on the windows and the walls and on the back of Seoho’s head—

“What?” Seoho’s voice is something broken—something so _delicate_ and soft it could very well be nothing at all—

“I love you” Youngjo’s eyes meet his—and they’re so _honest—_ so honest and _pained_ and full of so much sincere _love—_ “I fell in love with you”

And there’s a little spark—something that’s born from Seoho’s hands and the tips of his hair—there’s a gust of wind that hits the back of his neck and stings at his eyes on the way back—

“I’m sorry” Youngjo’s smile is still painful as he pauses, grips at nothing and looks away a second— “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you to fall in love with me” and then he finds Seoho’s eyes again, prickle and shine of tears clear _clear_ on the corner of his eyes— “I did my best, but—”

“Don’t—” Seoho _tries_ —tries to get words out and tries to interrupt and tries to fix fix fix and _understand—_

But then Youngjo’s hand is on his lips—soft _soft_ touch that takes Seoho’s words away—and Youngjo breathes out quiet and so _painful_ , lets his hand drop again—

“You’re not going to love me” Youngjo’s voice _breaks_ —he blinks brings his hand up to his face, rubs at the corners of his eyes—breathes breathes _breathes—_ “I know you won’t” and he sounds so fucking _shaky—_ sounds so broken and—

“I’m _trying—”_

“I know” and Youngjo’s voice is just a little louder—broken even so and spilling spilling at the edges of— “But you don’t have to anymore”

“Why?” Youngjo’s gaze drops, eyes teary and red red _red_ and Seoho’s everything burns burns burns _burns—_

“It hurts—” it’s almost a sob, painful as Youngjo’s hands grip the bedsheets tighter _tighter—_ “It hurts, you know?” a whisper—quiet quiet and _lost and—_ “Even if you keep trying, even if _I_ keep trying—” a breath, a pause—wind against their hair and fire in Seoho’s tongue and burning _burning burning—_ “it’s going nowhere— _we’_ re going nowhere and—” Seoho’s hands fall, Youngjo’s let go of the bedsheets, come up to his face again—a second— “I don’t want to keep doing this, I—"

Seoho’s eyes go in and out of focus—take in nothing and take in too much—take in colours and go black and white and grey grey _grey—_

“I don’t want you to keep hurting” Youngjo sniffles, lets out something choked that’s almost a laugh, hands rubbing away at tears tears _tears—_ “I don’t want to fall for you even more—I don’t—I don’t want this to get worse”

And there’s wind against the window and wind that makes Youngjo’s eyes close and there’s fire fire _fire fire_ under Seoho’s sleeves and crawling _crawling_ up his skin—

“I’m gonna talk to Geonhak, too” another laugh, Youngjo’s eyes opening again— warm when they find Seoho’s gaze and hold it with so much care and so little _resentment_ , so little bitterness and so so much _hurt—_ “Like I should’ve from the start”

And Seoho wants words to just _come out_ —wants to be able to _say_ things but he’s never never _never_ been good at this—been good at dealing and talking and baring his heart and thoughts and all that comes out is—

“I’m sorry” Seoho’s voice is but a whisper—something weak as he looks away and then comes back—holds Youngjo’s eyes with a smile on his own and his arms _burn—_ “For not—not being able to move on, for—” he looks away again, licks at his lips—reaches a hand towards Youngjo, tentative and scared and— “For hurting you”

Youngjo takes his hand—soft and careful as always—gives Seoho a teary smile and a kiss to the corner of his lips—

“It’s okay” a little broken, a little sad—another kiss, light on Seoho’s lips, hands held together again and so so _close—_ “I hurt myself, too” another kiss, another—silent promise and forgiveness and—“We both did” Youngjo’s hand on Seoho’s cheek, a kiss that lasts just a little longer, careful touch that tastes like fire—

And then Youngjo moves away, breathes so warm on Seoho’s skin—

“Let’s get you patched up, yeah?”

Seoho only nods.)

Just like that— The ending isn’t something big—it’s not something that explodes and leaves them both hurt and angry—it’s…just like that—it’s a soft gust of wind that opens Youngjo’s windows, it’s Youngjo’s hands carefully cleaning Seoho’s burns, it’s his fingers kind and so _cold_ yet warm on Seoho’s skin—

It’s quiet—something almost delicate when Youngjo ruffles Seoho’s hair and gives him a smile—something cracked and slipping much like sand through their fingers—

Just like that— Seoho leaves Youngjo’s house with a wave, thin long-sleeved t-shirt the only thing over him in the mid-December cold.

(Youngjo tells him he can keep the hoodie, but Seoho shakes his head, laughs out something about not wanting to be more of a bother, leaves before Youngjo can insist—)

(Seoho has fire burning every limb and nerve ending in his body, he’ll be fine.)

____

He knows he shouldn’t self-isolate.

He knows he should _talk—_ should _talk_ to to others—patch up burnt bridges, tell Geonhak him _and_ Youngjo were _idiots,_ that he was sorry, that he hurt Youngjo _and_ —

(He breathes, fixes his eyes on the floor, on his palm—sparks that fly up and away—sparks that fly up on every finger, little licks of red and blue.)

He knows he should talk to Hwanwoong, to _Dongju_ —should tell them he’s doing fine, the breakup wasn’t that bad, he’s sorry for distancing himself, for trying so hard to make everything _disappear_ —should tell them he never even liked Youngjo, that Seoho’s always liked _Hwanwoong—_

He _knows—_

But he’s also an idiot—too used to running away, to bottling up feelings and thoughts and dealing with the hurricane all on his own—too used to pretending it’s fine, too used to apologizing after it’s over, when he’s managed to piece himself back together—

He’s used to it, falls back on it even when he knows he _shouldn’t—_ Hwanwoong’s yelled at him for that a lot, has held Seoho down and forced him to face everything Seoho wants to run away from, has shed every damn tear Seoho refuses to believe is _his_ —

Hwanwoong has felt whenever Seoho couldn’t—has felt _for_ him time and time again, ever since they were kids, even if Seoho’s done nothing but cause trouble over and over again.

(Flames on his hand are blown away at the same time his phone rings—LED lighting up the darkness from where it is faceup on Seoho’s bedsheets. Seoho breathes in, puts on his glasses—limbs shaking and breathing stuttering _stuttering_ with quick wind that pushes back his bangs, pushes back faded purple that stings stings _stings—_

 _Youngjo-hyung came over yesterday—_ Seoho’s eyes hurt.

_Are you okay?_

_You know you can still count on me, right?_

_Dongju’s worried too—_ Seoho’s eyes _hurt_ , his _everything_ hurts, burns and turns turns _turns_ in disarray and with feelings feelings _feelings_ that Seoho can’t understand anymore—

_You can come over_

A new message, a pause, the KakaoTalk notification stuck on Seoho’s lock screen—burning at his retinas, burning at his lungs, burning at—

_The windows always open_

Seoho chokes, lets out a cry through parted lips that’s drowned _drowned_ in silence and the delicate _crack_ _crack_ of everything breaking apart—

_I miss you :(_

Another pause, a second to breathe, a second to choke when—

 _You’re an idiot—_ and it’s Dongju this time, message _crude_ like he always is, message true where it burns on Seoho’s lungs— _Why are you running away again?_

Seoho’s sorry—

 _I miss you—_ he wishes Dongju wouldn’t miss him, too— wishes he knew why it hurt hurt _hurt_ and why it lit up a fire through his limbs that’s so much like how Hwanwoong’s hair feels under his fingertips—

_At least pick up._

Seoho doesn’t—doesn’t answer, doesn’t open the messages, doesn’t pick up when the calls come and come again—

The windows rattle and his clothes stick to burnt skin—his thoughts turn and end up in Dongju, end up in Hwanwoong, end up _in_ —

Seoho keeps running—it’s all he can bring himself to do.)

Seoho _knows—_ yet he keeps running.

He runs until he’s out of breath—until Hwanwoong gives up on texting him, until Dongju stops trying to reach, until he can’t go visit Dongmyeong without Dongju’s eyes burning at his every limb—

He runs until it’s winter—until the year’s almost over and festivities abound—until it’s Christmas and he’s stuck all _alone_ because he’s driven himself into a cell of loneliness and solitude.

(“How did you get my address?”

“Youngjo-hyung” Geonhak switches his weight from one foot to the other, runs a hand through fluffy blond hair and scratches at his temple.

“Willingly?” something a little teasing takes over Seoho’s lips— a crooked little smile that burns at the corners of his eyes. Geonhak snorts—makes eye contact a second before looking away and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yes” a pause, Seoho pushes his door a little more open—lets himself breathe a little easier. Geonhak shrugs, clicks his tongue—shakes his head like a wet dog to push his bangs away from where they fall over his glasses. “After I bugged him for it, I guess”

“Why?” Seoho’s voice tries for teasing—tries for anything but what it _is,_ vulnerable and scared of feelings and reasons in the world—trying to hide away and turn back to isolation, to walls he’s built so far up he can’t find the way out anymore.

Geonhak blinks at him—scrunches up his nose cutely, kind eyes on Seoho’s as Geonhak seems to try to hide a little in his jacket.

“Youngjo-hyung’s worried” a frown, Geonhak pushes his hair back again, rubs at the back of his neck and cocks his head to the side. “I’m worried, too”

“Oh” Seoho straightens up, grips on his door a little tighter.

“You’re being, like” another nose scrunch, another shrug. “harder to reach than usual”

“Sorry—”

“I’m not—We’re not mad at you” Geonhak interrupts, makes sure to catch Seoho’s eyes—and the wind’s picking up its pace again, sparks flying from the tips of Seoho’s hair, from faded purple bangs that get pushed _pushed_ aside— “Not anymore, just—”

Geonhak stops, bites at the inside of his cheek—lets a sigh leave him before he steps forward _just_ a little, hand hovering over Seoho’s door—hovering by Seoho’s arm.

“We’re worried” quiet and careful— _pained,_ even, and Seoho wants to punch himself—wants to scream at his life choices and turn turn _turn_ back time to fix his mistakes—

“I’m sorry—” Geonhak tries to talk—frowns as his lips part again—but Seoho interrupts, smiles as he pats Geonhak’s forehead and laughs light _light_ for the first time in what might’ve been _weeks—_ “Stop” and he smiles a little wider, lets his hand fall to his side after pushing Geonhak back. “I _did_ hurt you two, right?”

Geonhak makes a noise—something between a complaint and agreement—and Seoho laughs again, leans a little back.

“I’m an idiot” He fixes his sweater, pulls at his sleeves where they cover his hands and ignores the burn of friction against burnt skin. Geonhak laughs, something soft that soothes burns and raging wind—something soft that lets Seoho breathe again, even if only a little bit.

“I knew that” A smirk—teasing and comfortable—and Seoho _laughs_ , something a little loud and taking over his features.

“Rude” a smile of his own, half-closed eyes—he lets his hand fall from the door, lets fire run down like a waterfall to his feet—

Geonhak invites him over—insists that there’s no problem, he’s not ruining Geonhak and Youngjo’s _date,_ insists that Seoho needs to just get out of his apartment, feel the winter air and maybe catch a cold so he comes back to _life—_

Seoho appreciates it—appreciates _Geonhak—_ lets himself be taken outside and lets the fire on his fingers fly _fly_ with turning air—

Seoho doesn’t run this time.)

Seoho doesn’t want to keep running away, doesn’t want to bottle it up, doesn’t want to pretend he’s fine to everyone who asks while avoiding _avoiding_ what he can’t _understand_ —

Seoho doesn’t want to keep running away, so he lets himself fall on Geonhak and Youngjo, even if only a little bit—lets himself drink until his eyes are blurry and the wind’s strong even with closed windows—lets himself drink until he falls on Geonhak’s shoulder with a choked sob and teary eyes—

Youngjo only runs his hands through Seoho’s hair—Geonhak only holds Seoho a little closer—

(None of them say anything, but that’s okay, this is okay— letting it out is okay, letting himself be _human_ is okay—)

He ends up going home a little past midnight despite Youngjo’s worried words and Geonhak’s nagging— promises to stay safe, to text them when he’s home like they’re his _parents_ —promises he won’t keep hiding and avoiding the light of day.

(“I’m fine” as he rubs at red eyes under his glasses and fixes his jacket—Geonhak gives him a sigh, Youngjo looks at him like a particularly sad cat. “Seriously,” Seoho laughs just a little, lets his hand drop and wind push his bangs away from his forehead.

“I’m just worried” Youngjo’s voice comes with a pout, hand holding onto Geonhak’s so _tightly—_

Seoho gives them both a kind smile, flicks fire that catches on the hem of Youngjo’s sweater and makes him yell—pull Geonhak backwards and has them almost falling to the floor.

“Don’t be” a laugh, shoulders relaxed as he grabs his hat and lets it fall on his head. “I already ruined a lot of things for you, just enjoy your night”

“You didn’t—” a gust of wind that makes Youngjo’s words get stuck as he yelps—a gust of wind that pushes their hair back as Seoho snorts.

“I did, don’t deny that” Youngjo whines—something defeated as he lets himself fall a little more on Geonhak’s side, hands still held together tight _tight—_

It makes Seoho happy— Seeing them happy makes Seoho happy, makes him feel like shit for keeping them away from this for so long, a complicated cauldron of thoughts and feelings boiling over at the back of his mind—collapsing into the fire with a discarded lid.

“Just fuck or something, _god_ ”

Geonhak _chokes_ , throws Seoho a glare even as Youngjo laughs with wide eyes—

“You go too, idiot.”)

____

He texts Hwanwoong while with a headache the next day—a river of apologies and promises that _he’s_ _fine, he’ll go visit soon, his head’s been a mess, he’s sorry for not replying—_

Hwanwoong leaves him on read, but Seoho figures he had that one coming.

He texts Dongju, too, with shaky hands and a half-drank glass of water on one hand—more apologies that leave him shaky _shaky—_

Dongju doesn’t leave him on read—Dongju doesn’t reply, either—

Dongju calls him before Seoho can take his glass to the kitchen—

Seoho picks up.

(“What the _fuck_ , hyung?” Dongju’s voice is scratchy with sleep and frustration—scratchy with feelings that seem to be _overflowing—_

“Good morning to you too” Seoho lets himself smile—lets himself ignore the way his voice is coming out a little choked up, the way his brain feels as floaty as it does _hurt—_ ignore the way he missed Dongju’s voice with the same tinge of pain that he misses _Hwanwoong’s—_

“What’s with you? You said you wouldn’t _fucking_ do this again—you were already _talking_ to us again, you—” Exasperated and hurt hurt _hurt—_ loud and cracking _cracking_ and Seoho’s everything _hurts—_

“Can you—” Seoho swallows, cuts Dongju off—plays with a little fire on his hand, one that dances _dances_ in Seoho’s eyes, much like Hwanwoong always has, much like Dongju does too, sometimes, when Hwanwoong takes his hand and pulls him along and into his pace— “please wait for me, just a little more?”

“What does that even—?” And it’s quiet—quiet and _broken_ and— “What does a little more even _mean_?”

“Please?”

“I don’t understand you” Dongju sounds tired—sounds like he’s about to cry—sounds like he’d want to fight Seoho if they were face to face—

“I don’t, either” a breath—the flame on Seoho’s hand growing and put out in fractions of a second— “I want to understand—understand again, so—”

“You want me—want _Hwanwoong_ to wait again?” He sounds a little louder, a little more awake—Seoho breathes out, eyes on nothing as wind turns and turns and _turns—_ “He’s already waited—waited and _chased you_ so many fucking times—”

“I know, just—”

“He’s tired— _I_ ’m tired” A pause, Dongju’s breath stuttering as Seoho holds the phone closer. “I’m tired, hyung”

“I miss you two, just—” it comes out without thought, comes out with way too many feelings feelings _feelings—_ “You can yell at me when I go over, okay? You don’t need to chase me again, just—”

“I’ll make sure to kick your fucking ass” and Seoho can tell—can tell Dongju’s holding back tears and the urge to break break _break—_

“Thank you” Seoho’s voice is a whisper—something soft that leaves with a calming storm, something soft that leaves with shaky breaths and a _wish.)_

_______

“You wanted to talk, right?” Keonhee speaks over a cup of instant noodles, legs swinging under him and under Seoho’s shitty living room table. Seoho makes a noise, blows at steam with weak air—listens to the soothing buzz of the fluorescent overhead.

“Yeah, just—” he stirs his noodles, eyes on some spot on the table, then leans back and lets his chopsticks drop on it with a little shrug, chair creaking _just_ a little with his weight. He brings a hand up to push at his bangs, fixes his eyes on another spot and on _nothing_. “Give me a second?”

“You keep pushing it off” Keonhee’s voice is a little _tired_ even as he pouts, drops his chopsticks, too, and pushes away his food. “Hyung, _please_ —”

“I _know,_ just _—_ ” Seoho falls forward again, gives Keonhee a small smile, ignores the way he can smell something _burning_. “I’m not—I’m not really good at this, you know that, it’s—“ He stops—clicks his tongue, takes in a breath and lets his hands fall on the table with thoughts that turn turn _turn…_

There’s a spark from his fingers—something burning at the ends of his sleeves before wind brings it up and down into nothing—something loud _loud_ against the doors and windows and creaky floorboards—

Keonhee only smiles back at him with a little nod, hands crossed over the table and everything kind, _patient—_ so fucking _patient_ even if Seoho doesn’t _deserve it,_ doesn’t deserve patience or kindness _or_ —

“I don’t” he takes in a breath—breaks through his thoughts thoughts _thoughts_ to just spit it _out—_ “really get it. It’s like—” a pause, Seoho’s eyes on the table, on the wind that blows and pushes his things into disorder disorder _disorder_ — on the messy hurricane of chaos that mirrors mirrors _mirrors_ Seoho’s thoughts and feelings.

“I like Hwanwoong" a frown, Seoho’s hands tapping on the table, uneven rhythm that repeats repeats _repeats…_

“I thought—I thought I had it figured out, I thought—” Seoho looks at the table, feels fire on his hands, hair—feels wind that hits and hits and _hits_ and takes his breath away and _stings—_

“I thought I _understood_ myself—I just—”

(Seoho likes Hwanwoong.

He _knows_ that _—_ He’s _known_ that for so _long—_ knows that he’s been in _love_ with him for _years—_

But there’s something _else—_ something he just _can’t_ find the answer to, something that spins and spins and crawls crawls _crawls_ until Seoho doesn’t _understand_ why he’s running anymore.)

“You like Dongju too, right?” Keonhee’s voice _cuts_ —cuts through thoughts and the loud _loud_ whirlwind—cuts through words and feelings and doubts doubts _doubts_ and not a single answer in Seoho’s grasp—

“What?” and Keonhee’s reaches over the table, holds Seoho’s hand _carefully—_ ignores the sting from fire _fire_ that Seoho _can’t control_. “What do you—?”

_What do you mean? What are you saying? What are—_

“You like him” Keonhee’s eyes are wide, careful—as careful as his hand across the table and as careful as his voice and—

Seoho chokes.

( _He likes Dongju._

 _Seoho likes Dongju._ )

Seoho can only laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters a little shorter than the prev two but unbuwbu this felt like. a nice place to leave off
> 
> (updated tags and summary a little hehe)


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > What _does_ he want?  
> It’s never been something big—it’s never been something all too complicated—  
> What _does_ he want?  
> He simply wants to love, still—

It should’ve been obvious (it was, it wasn’t).

It should’ve been easy (it was, it wasn’t).

It should’ve been obvious it should’ve been easy it should’ve been _it should’ve been—_

(It wasn’t it wasn’t it _wasn’t_ )

The feelings when Dongju’s grip had weakened—the feeling of Dongju’s breath on his skin, of Dongju’s hands on burn wounds—the soothing and the _pain_ that ran through his nerves— The thoughts of wanting and of running away.

It really should’ve been so _obvious—_

(“What am I supposed to _do_?” Seoho’s voice is _confused—_ confused and frail frail _frail—_ confused as his mind turns and turns and _turns_ together with hurricanes of fire that become nothing at his fingertips. “Where do I even go from here?”

“Where do you _want_ to go?” and Keonhee’s hands are kind as he pushes back Seoho’s bangs, head warm where it’s resting on Seoho’s lap. Seoho frowns down at him, grips at the couch cushions with a noise—with little currents of air that make Keonhee’s wide _wide_ eyes close a second, make washed out blue hair tickle at Keonhee’s skin, tickle at Seoho’s under his clothes together with _fire_ —

“I don’t know”)

He never wanted to simply move on, but he never wanted to take Hwanwoong away, either—

It didn’t hurt just because Hwanwoong and Dongju were together—

It hurt because Seoho couldn’t _be there_ with them.

(“Dongju wants to kick my ass” Seoho’s hand falls to Keonhee’s bangs, pushes back messy blue with a laughed-out breath. “Hwanwoong probably wants to, too, huh”

“You deserve it” Keonhee’s hand pushes at Seoho’s, pushes up until it’s hitting softly at Seoho’s cheek, forehead—

“Shut up” and a gust of wind that pushes pushes but is so _kind—_ wind that brings playful fire to Keonhee’s limbs and brings out little laughs—

Seoho feels lighter.)

The warmth from Dongju’s cold hands, the warmth of Hwanwoong’s breathing against Seoho’s, the warmth of existing—feelings—the warmth of Dongju’s frigid breath on Seoho’s neck whenever Dongju complained about _missing him_ —

The warmth of being missed, too, the warmth warmth _warmth_ of existing together and of being in love and the fire fire _fire_ of confusion—

He lets himself fall back on his bed, eyes fixed somewhere on the ceiling—on little stains from fire that sparked up too far, patterns of nothing painted on cheap paint.

What _does_ he want?

It’s never been something big—it’s never been something all too complicated—

What _does_ he want?

He simply wants to love, still—

He simply wants to be happy, still—He simply wants his chest to stop twisting—

(He simply wants to hold Dongju’s hand, too—Wants to be able to love and _feel_ loved—

By Hwanwoong, by Dongju—

He simply wants to kiss them both—)

(And, if he can’t, then he just wants them to _know—_ He wants to be free to love them, be free to show—

He wants them to know—and then he can soothe his heart, then he can let it all go, let himself love until it all ends—

Then he can soothe his heart—soothe the little burns and hurricanes that slip from his skin, hair, _thoughts—_

He just wants them to know they’re loved—let himself give them that, and then let himself move on—move on while knowing he, at the very least, let himself love _.)_

He simply wants to make it all fade fade _fade—_ wants stupid thoughts and feelings to stop turning—

Wants to be able to share and be with them, wants to stop missing them— because he pushed them away, time and time again—selfish dumb actions born out of fear fear _fear_ and not _understanding—_

He breathes out—little currents of wind and fire that make it to the end of his sleeves, burn and turn turn t _urn_ into patterns in the air before fading away. His phone’s face up next to him, screen off and playing soft _soft_ music at low volume.

It’s an artist Hwanwoong recommended him once—music soft and melody one that loops in Seoho’s brain—

He knows the lyrics to every song by heart.

(“It won’t—” Seoho’s sitting on Geonhak’s couch, phone held tightly in his hands as the windows hit hit _hit_ in even intervals—follow a rhythm much alike Seoho’s favourite melody. “be a bother, right? If I were to tell them”

“Not much more than you’ve been so far” Geonhak lets it out lightly, turns so he’s facing Seoho better. Seoho snorts, throws Geonhak a playful glare, loosens the hold he has on his phone and lets it fall on the cushions.

“Whatever” and then he leans back, hands a little more relaxed against the back of the couch—against scratchy material and against his running thoughts—

“Stop running” Geonhak shrugs, pushes himself up—runs a careful hand to push dark blue bangs back, scratches at the side and back of his neck. “Polyamory’s a thing, hyung”)

Polyamory’s a thing—Seoho ends up reading up more than he probably should, reads up articles and stories and everything he can process—reads up until the year slips _slips_ away, reads up until his eyes hurt at night and his thoughts keep turning and turning and _turning—_

(“Happy new year” something whispered and frail, Seoho’s phone held close to his ear, his back against burnt walls and fingers covered in bandages. “Sorry for calling out of the blue”

“I thought you wouldn’t call” Hwanwoong’s voice is soft through static, something tired and so so _afraid—_

“You can’t get rid of me, unfortunately” a pause, Seoho’s free hand pulling at the hem of his shirt—flattening against bedsheets and wind. “Dumbass”

“Rude” Hwanwoong’s laugh is soft—soft and lovely and everything Seoho loves loves _loves_ even when it’s painful— “I haven’t heard from you in ages”

“Sorry—”

“You said I wouldn’t have to chase you” choked, vulnerable—Seoho swallows, ignores burning fire through his bandages—through his clothes and invading all his senses— “You said you wouldn’t disappear again”

“I know”

“I wish I could say I hate you” A sniffle, the rustle of bed sheets on the other side—the sound of Hwanwoong holding the phone closer, of uneven breathing and mistakes mistakes _mistakes_ that plague their minds—

“I wish you wouldn’t” Seoho lets himself smile, lets his knees come up—rests his chin against them, grips at his bedsheets, his phone—

“Selfish” a sob, something that tears tears _tears_ and mirrors in the way that Seoho’s window is so close to shattering again.

“Sometimes” A little laugh, a sniffle of his own that he can’t fight back and can’t make disappear—

“I hate you” another laugh, the lilt of Hwanwoong’s voice a pleasant melody—as soothing as it is painful, river and waterfall of so much _love_ —

“You wish” a pout—a laugh—a choked feeling at the back of his throat—

“Happy new year to you too” a whisper, a smile—

“Can I—” a little noise of question from Hwanwoong’s side, Seoho’s voice escaping and shattering _shattering_ walls and thoughts and windows and— “Tomorrow, can I go—can we talk?”)

Seoho keeps running—but, this time, it’s in the right direction.

____

For what might be the first time in his _life,_ Seoho walks into Hwanwoong and Keonhee’s apartment through the front door—rings the bell, even, and waits to be let in.

(He misses breaking in through the windows and scaring the living hell out of Keonhee, yeah, but he can’t do that now—not this time.)

For what might be the first time in his life, Seoho walks in and leaves his shoes carefully by the door—walks into the living room with his hands in his pockets and his mind turning turning _turning_ like a windmill—

(For the first time in his life, too, he can control fire and wind despite his feelings—can make it stop and recoil even when his head is in disarray—

For the first time, his own magic doesn’t betray him.)

He drops on the couch (familiar—still the same soft _soft_ material to the cushions, still the same stains they never figured out how to remove), lets his eyes follow Hwanwoong as he mutters something about getting Dongju even if it’s the middle of the day—mutters something about closing the blinds before making the all-too-familiar way to his room.

Seoho nods along, closes the blinds with a flick of his fingers and wind that’s still a little rebellious—spots mess of papers and dirty dishes and cutlery that he’s sure Dongju’s been too down about to even clean—

He breathes in, smells blood on himself, smells burning under his bandages as he pulls at them absent-mindedly—scratches at scabs that itch itch _itch_ together with words—

And then Hwanwoong’s back, steps light in the darkness as he pulls a half-asleep Dongju along, holds his hand like it’s a lifeline—holds his hand like he’s _afraid—_

(Seoho’s afraid, too— wishes he could be reassured as well—

But he can’t have that, not now.)

“Oh” Dongju looks up with flashing red and pink—fangs peeking as he pulls away from Hwanwoong and focuses on Seoho— “Hey”

Seoho gives him a smile—something careful and a little worried—and a soft wave—

“Hey”

(They end up all sitting on the couch a second, then standing up—sitting down again—until Seoho’s laughing lightly and letting himself fall to sit on one of the few chairs in the apartment—letting Hwanwoong and Dongju sit on the couch with curious _curious_ and careful eyes—

It’s all too quiet—awkward and like it’s about to burst—

Seoho knows he needs to break the silence—

So, he does.)

“I don’t—I don’t tend to do this, talk about myself and feelings, just—” He breaks eye contact as he speaks, grips tight onto his own shirt with lost _lost_ eyes and rebellious little flames that dance dance _dance_ with his feelings and over his skin— “I’m sorry”

(Wind that pushes back at Seoho’s bangs—wind that seems to want to hide hide _hide_ and yet wind that Seoho pushes _away—_ )

Dongju seems like he’s about to speak up—seems like he’s about to rip Seoho’s neck in a mix of frustration and so _so_ much _anger—_

Hwanwoong stops him with a hand to his neck, another intertwining their fingers—Seoho swallows, keeps talking.

“I said I wouldn’t run away, yeah? And then I did” He bites his lip, shrugs—lets his voice laugh in self-deprecation and something he can’t quite _place—_ “Like, twice, even” another laugh, a sigh—a noise of _something_ that’s almost words from Hwanwoong that Seoho interrupts. “I shouldn’t have, I didn’t want to, I just—I didn’t know what to do? I’m just—” his tongue gets stuck—he bites it, breathes to try and get words words _words—_

“A fucking idiot?” It’s Hwanwoong’s voice that cuts through, tense and unexpected—stretched thin and yet almost _laughing—_

Seoho snorts, lets himself catch Hwanwoong’s eyes a second—lets himself smile something sad with a shrug.

“Yeah” Seoho’s voice comes back—his _words_ come back—so he keeps going. “I’ve just… always ran away, even when I didn’t want to—I just… fell back on that again as soon as I—” He swallows, lets out a shaky breath, ignores the way his own wind seems to be suffocating and liberating and fire burns burns _burns—_ “As soon as I couldn’t understand again—I promised you, and I just—I wanted to keep it, but—”

Dongju’s eyes watch him, quiet—fade to pink and flick to red as he grips Hwanwoong’s hand so _tight—_

“But then it was—I didn’t get it, like, what I wanted or what I felt and—and at first I was just—” His voice breaks again—escapes into something broken and vulnerable and everything everything _burns_ and— “At first I was just jealous and—and I thought that was it— and then I talked to you both and—and I thought I understood but—”

He breathes it all out at once—then stops, takes a break, swallows down every little fragment of himself that seems to want to escape—

“But then I didn’t—I didn’t realize that I wasn’t understanding or _dealing_ with myself and what I was _feeling_ and—” his nails dig into his palm hard enough to _hurt—_ hard enough to break through delicate skin under bandages and magic—“And then I just—I ran away again”

He manages another second of eye contact—a little smile— “I hurt you—I hurt Youngjo-hyung, too” he looks back at the floor, at the wall—

“What happened with—?” Dongju’s voice is sharp as ever—menacing at the edges—Seoho breathes in again, out—

“I never liked him, I just—He liked me, so I—” fire at the tips of his hair, he lets his eyes fall shut—lets wind bring the fire up until it’s gone. “I dated him to—to try and get myself together, to try and like him, too—” he breathes out, shaky, brings a hand to push back at his bangs, presses the heel of his palm to one of his eyes under his glasses. “Because—Because I didn’t want to _face_ things, because I—I wanted to move on and never properly face things and—” he drops his hand, sniffles, bites his lip hard enough he _bleeds—_ “Because I thought I could just ignore that—that I liked you and just—just move on, but—”

Hwanwoong makes a noise—catches Seoho’s eyes as soon as he opens them, seems to be about to say _something,_ but—but Seoho can’t have that because he _knows—_

Knows that if Hwanwoong says anything—if Dongju says anything right now, then—

Then he might run away again.

“But that wasn’t what I wanted and—and I didn’t just like you I—” he breaks eyes contact, breathes breathes _breathes_ and ignores wind wind _wind_ that keeps pushing him and telling him to just _run—_

He licks at blood from his lips, pushes out fire and wind and _words—_

“I was confused—the reason I was so—so _confused_ wasn’t just because I liked you, Hwanwoong, it was—” and the blinds push aside enough that there’s a second of sunlight and then nothing—the windows rattle enough in similar rhythm of chaos chaos _chaos—_ “It was just—it was just that I’m stupid and I fell—fell for Dongju, too”

His voice cracks—cracks as much as injured skin and cracks as much as windows back at home he still can’t get himself to fix _and—_

“I didn’t—I didn’t want to move on but I didn’t want to understand and—and then I just ran away and—” and his words are turning turning _turning_ too much and nothing makes any sense anymore and he’s stuck _stuck_ between wanting to laugh and wanting to just _run—_

“You—” Dongju’s voice is frail—frail and frustrated and something something _something something Seoho can’t understand and—_ “That’s why you ran away?” quiet, almost a whisper and so fucking _much—_

“Yes” a breath, a gust of wind that stings at his eyes and brings the smell of burning and— “I didn’t—I didn’t want to see it, I guess, I just—”

“You’re an idiot” louder _louder—_ the edge between a whisper and a yell and the edge between broken shattered and anger and and _and—_ “You—You didn’t even _think_ of talking to—to Hwanwoong, at least?”

Seoho wants to reply—wants to say that he thought about it he _thought about it_ but he _couldn’t—_ he couldn’t bring himself to do it and couldn’t bring himself to talk and be vulnerable and holy shit he knows he stupid and he’s so sorry and—

“You didn’t—You didn’t think to just _say_ things? You—you just ran away and then hurt us and didn’t even spare a fucking _thought_ to—”

“Dongju” Hwanwoong holds him back—grips at Dongju’s shirt and arm and Seoho’s head is spinning spinning _spinning_ with thoughts thoughts _thoughts_ of being hated of being terrible _of—_

“What—” and he spits it out with so many _feelings—_ with so much that makes Seoho almost want to _throw up—_ “What the _fuck_ do you even want me to _do,_ Hwanwoong—what do you _want_ me to even act like when—when I’ve been watching you and—” he gets up at some point—Hwanwoong follows with an expression Seoho can’t even fucking _read_ and— “And things just kept fucking falling to pieces and how do you—how do you want me to even act when this is all just—” and he chokes—swallows back tears and feelings and scratches at his lips with fangs and everything everything everything in _disarray—_ “Just—”

And then there are no more words—only a noise that’s almost a sob and only Dongju clinging to Hwanwoong and _crying_ and—

“You know, I—” Hwanwoong starts with a whisper, with a hand up in Dongju’s hair and the other gripping at whatever’s in reach and shaking shaking _shaking—_ “I’ve been thinking a lot, too” broken voice—broken whisper when he gets Dongju to sit back down, looks at Seoho with eyes that Seoho just can’t _decipher_ — “And it’s—its funny, you know, like—just yesterday I was talking to Dongju about this, and—”

A pause—Hwanwoong laughs a little bit, look at nothing and finds Seoho’s eyes—

“I like you, too, Seoho” another laugh—hand falling back to Dongju’s hair, tangling through it with care, eyes on Seoho’s still—something shaky and something something _something—_ “I just—I’m dumb, too, I guess?”

“Huh?” Seoho feels _lost—_ feels like the world is turning turning _turning_ on its axis and like colours are leaving and overflowing all the same _and—_

“Ever since we were kids, I think—it just” Hwanwoong shrugs, drops his hand to Dongju’s shoulder, drops his eyes to the wall—ceiling—back to Seoho— “It felt so natural to—to love you, I never noticed I was in love with you like that—” another laugh, Hwanwoong pushing back pink and light blue strands from his face—rubbing at his eyes under his glasses and _smiling_ and Seoho doesn’t _understand—_ “Until you were dating Youngjo-hyung and just—” Dongju lets out a sob—something a little louder—something that chokes on laughter and and _and—_ “I didn’t know, I’m sorry”

“You’re dating Dongju” nothing else comes out— nothing makes sense—the world turns and turns and turns and the wind is so fucking _loud_ and Seoho’s skin _burns so bad—_ “You _like_ Dongju, you can’t—I’m not doing that to him, I’m—” words flow flow _flow_ out and his thoughts run run _run_ — “Even if you like me, even if—even _if—”_ Seoho’s eyes find Dongju, find the way his hands are shaking and the way Dongju seems like he’s about to cut in—about to tell Seoho that it’s fine that it doesn’t matter that that _that—_ “I’m not—I don’t want to be the reason he cries—he’s hurt again, I don’t—” his words are an avalanche—waterfall that’s loud loud _loud_ with wind and fire and— “You guys are lovely together and you—you guys are _happy—_ ” A pause, erratic breathing, erratic thoughts—fire on his limbs and hair and the smell smell _smell_ of burning and _pain—_ “I’m not doing that to him—I’m not… not doing that to you, I’m—”

“Oh my _god—”_ Dongju’s voice is broken—is stained with tears as he lowers his hands again and looks at Seoho with pretty _pretty_ pink eyes that are stained with tears tears _tears_ and— “That’s not—this is—”

Dongju lets out a choked noise—something frustrated as he pushes himself up and—

“ _I_ like you too, you’re not—you’re not hurting me, you—” another step, noise, Seoho’s head spinning spinning _spinning_ together with a world that loses and gains and loses and gains colour colour _colour so much colour—_ “We—we _both_ like you, hyung, you—”

“Huh?” and the world steadies—and the little drops drops _drops_ of colour all meld together _and—_

Seoho’s stuck—stuck between laughing and crying all the tears he’s been holding back back _back_ for so _long—_

“What do you—” he licks at his lip—licks over a scab and feels the way fire fire _fire_ seems to die down down _down_ and disappear—the way winds goes under control and flows through the room and soothes soothes _soothes_ and— “Huh?”

Dongju _laughs—_ laughs something wet and bright that makes Hwanwoong _laugh_ as well—something bright and happy and something something _somethingsomething—_

“You’re an idiot” Hwanwoong covers the bottom of his face with one of his hands, eyes shiny with tears and amusement and _feelings—_ feelings Seoho can’t figure out or define or understand and—

“I don’t—I don’t get it” Seoho feels tense—feels the world all too still and things making no sense even as they fall fall _fall_ into place so beautifully and—

“Can I kiss you?” Hwanwoong’s voice is careful—laced with fears and feelings and with something like being in _love_ and—

“Oh”

_Oh._

“Oh?” Dongju’s eyes are careful, too—careful and curious and pretty _pretty_ even if he’s still tense and even if he still looks just a little too frustrated _and—_

“Yeah—Okay, yeah” Seoho’s voice is breathy—scared, too—is careful and frail _frail—_

Hwanwoong smiles, then, crosses the room with light steps—pulls Seoho up and off the chair—pulls Seoho down with hands to his face—

And then Hwanwoong kisses him—something light and careful—something with feelings feelings _feelings_ of fifteen years and so so much _more—_ a brush of lips that sparks fire that stings and soothes all the same— sparks where their skin touches and sparks sparks _sparks—_

Hwanwoong pulls away—kisses at the corner of Seoho’s mouth and gives him a little smile—

“You’re crying” soft soft _soft—_ Hwanwoong’s hands wiping at Seoho’s tears, Dongju’s cold _cold_ touch on Seoho’s hand and hair and—

“I’m crying?” voice shattered and yet put together—feelings that turn and burn and yet bring no pain at all—

Hwanwoong nods with a laugh, steps back and takes Dongju’s hand—pulls him closer, then, kisses at Dongju’s face and at tears that are still fresh—and Dongju kisses back, bites at Hwanwoong’s lip and nuzzles against tear tracks and it’s all so soft and precious and Seoho’s head is spinning spinning _spinning because—_

“Hyung,” Dongju’s voice is a little pouty, a little muffled as rubs at his face and seems to want to _hide—_ “can I kiss you, too?”

“Yeah” a breath—a second—and then Dongju’s smiling against Seoho’s lips, fangs playful against skin and everything cold cold _cold_ and yet so _warm—_

Seoho won’t stop crying—won’t stop feeling and won’t stop stop _stop_ thinking thinking _thinking because—_

Because this warmth—

This warmth is _his._

(“What does this—” Dongju kisses him again, takes away Seoho’s words with hands to his hair and fangs that scrape and soothe on his lips—Hwanwoong laughs a little, runs a hand through Dongju’s hair, pulls him back and away with care, with another kiss—“Mean, like—for us, _this—”_ and Seoho can’t find _words—_ only waves his hand in a vague gesture of something _something_ and—

“Personally” Hwanwoong kisses at Seoho’s cheek, runs careful fingers on the back of his hand. “That we’re all dating now?”

“That I love you” Dongju sounds a little tired—sleepy and happy _and—_ “And that I can kiss you, also” a pout, a little bite on Seoho’s jaw, hands on Seoho’s hair and everything cold cold _cold_ and so _much—_

“Oh” Seoho nods—blinks away tears that simply won’t stop _flowing_ and pushes away thoughts thoughts _thoughts_ and second guesses and— “I like that, yeah” and Hwanwoong kisses at Seoho’s cheek, eyes, lips— “I like that a lot”

“Good” Dongju’s voice is a quiet hum—something cold warm _cold_ as he buries his face in Seoho’s neck with a little laugh. “’Cause I like it a lot, too”)

And things aren’t perfect—Seoho’s head still spins and fire still burns when he thinks too much—

Things aren’t perfect—but things are okay—

Things aren’t perfect, but Seoho stops running away—things aren’t perfect, but Seoho lets himself _exist—_

And he lets himself love, lets himself _breathe—_

(Breathe when Hwanwoong drags him in for a kiss that’s clumsy and still a little unsure—a kiss that’s fifteen years of doubts and thinking too much—

Breathe when Dongju kisses him, too—runs his fingers over Seoho’s earring that’s still matching with Hwanwoong’s, whispers that maybe _he_ can get one, too—)

And Seoho’s in love. And things are okay.

____

(“Hey, hyung?” quiet _quiet_ , the lull of the early morning bright _bright_ in Seoho’s eyes and Hwanwoong’s voice a melody in his ears—

“Hm?” Seoho shifts, runs his fingers on Dongju’s hair—feels himself shiver when Dongju moves, nuzzles closer in his sleep and breathes so _cold—_

“Love you” and a kiss to his lips, hands in dyed purple hair—hands in pink and blue hair that’s already fading in colour—

“Love you guys, too” another kiss, a kiss to Dongju’s forehead, the melody of the morning, the melody of being _alive.)_

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/frosmxths)
> 
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/frosmxths)


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